


JOHN5 WANTS TO F*CK THE CREATURE!

by Anonymous



Category: John5 - Fandom, Marilyn Manson (Band), Nine Inch Nails (Band), Skold - Fandom, Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Alien Character(s), Alien Sex, Alien/Human Relationships, Aliens, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Fingering, Biting, Blasphemy, Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Body Horror, Bondage, Breeding, Character Death, Creature Fic, Demon/Human Relationships, Demons, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, End of the World, Ghost Sex, Hand Jobs, House of 1000 Corpses AU, Human/Monster Romance, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knotting, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Manipulation, Mating Bond, Naga, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Scratching, Seduction, Size Kink, Submission, Tentacle Dick, Tentacle Rape, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Vampire Sex, Vampires, Voyeurism, Werewolf Mates, Werewolf Sex, Werewolves, dryders, sucking, two dicks whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 02:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 61,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21263747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Just spooky, smutty stories from the Crypt about everyone's favorite blonde guitarist.(DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the people depicted. The personalities portrayed to not portray actual personalities. All rights reserved to the stories as the stories are mine.)





	1. John5 and the Curse of the Black Bathwater!

**Author's Note:**

> John loves baths. He loves feeling clean. But there's something in the water... 
> 
> Song for the story: Perversion 99- Rob Zombie
> 
> ***
> 
> Okay! It's certainly been a while hasn't it? Consider this a spooky, fun Halloween gift from me to you! For those of you who know who I am, hi I love you all.  
On a more serious note, I am pleased to share this with you guys and I hope you enjoy reading it all as much as I enjoyed writing it! It has certainly been a while since I posted something. So you know, if you liked it, hit that kudos button and leave me a comment or two because it truly does warm my heart to see them. Also it lets me know that you actually really liked it and want to see more! (Plus if you do, maybe you'll get a Christmas gift as well. Who knows?)  
If this is just not your thing or you read the tags and know for sure that it is not your thing, what... what are you doing here? Go enjoy something you love! Hate comments will be regarded as such and deleted. I have no time for immaturity as I was studying for midterms and preparing petitions while writing these. I'm pretty tired.  
Much love to all of you! <3

John _loves _baths. He loves feeling clean. All fresh and renewed. There is something so satisfying in smelling good, in lathering the soap and smoothing it along his skin, letting it soften and soothe him. He loves being in the water, just content to soak and relax, something that does not always come easily for him. If anything, John can stay in for hours on end and allow the water to caress his body in pleasantly searing waves. Nothing better.

Better than an orgasm if he has to be perfectly honest with himself.

Well, no. Perhaps not _that _good. In fact, John reminisces while sinking deeper in the large tub so that the water just meets his chin, how hard he had come when Jim gave him a rim job in the bath, how the soap suds had clung to his soaked body, how good and wet Jim’s tongue had felt circling over and dipping into his entrance, how both the steam and the high from his orgasm had left him feeling blissfully light-headed, sinking back into Jim’s strong, capable arms. Baths and sex with his big, buff boyfriend, Jim. Those are his favorite pastimes most of all.

John feels himself get hard just thinking about it, and any other time of clear rationality, he would have thought better and jacked himself off out of the tub and before bed without soiling his bath too soon, but this is different somehow. Somehow he cannot bring himself to get out. Not that he simply does not want to but that he physically _can’t _do it, that he is purposefully restrained somehow, whether by the water itself or something else entirely. Of what he knows not. John starts for a moment of realization and attempts to sit up and force himself out, but it is indeed the water that will not allow him to budge, forcibly keeps him down like two wet, warm hands holding his shoulders, keeping him in place. John panics briefly. He’s heard of stories where people drowned in their own bathtubs and is determined not to add himself to the list.

It does not feel threatening however, and while he hates to admit it, John feels himself get more and more aroused just from the way the water seems to caress his semi hard cock. Arousal mixed with a sort of panic frenzy. Perhaps it is thinking about Jim. In the tub with him. Teasing his hole with his tongue. But he can’t ignore that he is currently locked in place, weighed down by invisible hands while the water continues to stroke and lap against his vulnerable body. As crazy as it seems, it feels as though there is someone with him, some invisible force holding him in place securely and playing with him. And he’s getting harder and harder, until he could just burst, right there, prematurely, bringing everything to a rather short end.

To no one in particular, John vehemently shakes his head and pushes forward with all his strength against the force until he sits up with a loud splashing noise and finally manages to scramble out of the tub. He almost slips and knocks his head against the rim from his mess but rights himself, breathing heavy, rasping breaths, and whirls around to look back at the seemingly harmless bathwater.

No one.

Nothing.

“What the-” John can’t bring himself to finish his sentence and stumbles back. He blindly reaches for his towel while eyeing the tub suspiciously, almost as though he is waiting for some sort of giveaway. Still nothing. No reaction of any kind, and he gives up to finish shaking the water out of his ears and towel-drying his wispy, nearly shoulder-length blonde hair.

When he brings himself to finally drain the tub, what meets his eyes disturbs him.

The water is _black_, black as tar, lifeless, still, and bleak. John feels the back of his neck run from hot to sickly cool while he stares in disbelief. He simply cannot make himself get closer, to even bring his hand forward, reaching down deep into the foul-looking mess and draining it. Whatever it is, it is definitely not water anymore. It looks far too thick to even be water, and it seems to give off some type of odor that John cannot place. The stench that reaches his nose does not smell rancid, anything but however, it floods John’s nostrils powerfully, overwhelming him greatly. Rather than rationally backing away and calling a plumber, John leans forwards, gets on his knees, and looks in. The scent grows stronger, almost pulling him closer like that invisible force was somehow still present, beckoning him to come back in, join them and see what will happen had he stayed in the bath for longer.

Running his fingers over the “water” can’t hurt, can it? John ponders over his options, slim to none as they are, not realizing that all rational thought has completely left his mind. All that remains is the scent of the black mass in his tub and a strange voice in his head luring him closer, deeper, _touch me, see what I feel like, you won’t regret it, I promise… _

It’s strangely still warm since John had left it as he runs his fingers over the motionless surface. His gasp echoes in the bathroom, the only sound that can be heard aside from the gentle yet somewhat nauseating squish when the mass makes contact with his hand. It is slimy, John wrinkles his nose, more loose than tar, thicker than water, and he attempts to retract his hand in disgust.

All of his efforts are futile when he realizes he is trapped.

The black matter comes with his fingers, now stringy and sticky like silly string. It clings to him with a grip like steel that makes John cry out in alarm. His cries grow more frantic as the matter seems to tug against him, a mind of its own, tugging and yanking and pulling dangerously close towards the drain, and then- nothing. It snaps away from his fingers, releasing him so suddenly that John falls backwards, watching in horror as the black mass slithers down the drain of the tub in less than a second. The tub is clean, not a speck of the substance left, as if it were never there in the first place.

No one, not even the plumber John had called early the next morning, could make sense of what occurred that night. When he had checked everything down to the last pipe, John had been left with more questions than answers as before.

It is as though it never appeared.

So that night as the water runs clean from the faucet of his bathtub, John figures he’s safe. Part of him, the smallest, filthiest part sort of wishes it would return. Just to finish what it started. John’s cock jumps at that, but he shakes himself out of his fantasies and sinks in with a long content sigh. Tonight will be different, he thinks. No interruptions. Perhaps he can actually rub one out in peace.

John closes his eyes serenely, his breath even. No thoughts run through his mind, except for one that being he should probably call Jim if he wants to get off any time soon. Jim and his large arms that could do more than wrap around his small frame and throw him on the bed. Jim and his perfect tongue and the skillful things he can do with it. Jim and his larger than average fucking _cock_. John hums at the thought and slides deeper in the water, perfectly relaxed, maybe a little turned on.

“Who’s Jim?”

John starts a little, sitting up instantly with a soft splash. As soon as his eyes focus, he realizes his predicament and very nearly screams in terror.

Once again, like an omen to a Grecian play, the water is _black_. It oozes and pulses around John’s body, thicker than ever, and he actually screams this time, thoroughly disgusted by the way it seems to stroke him in every violating way possible.

The voice breaks through again, a hiss, slippery and cool like a snake, dragging out the s’s naturally. John closes his mouth immediately when he hears it, and his blood runs cold. He’s never heard a voice like that before, dark as tinted glass, smooth as syrup, yet slippery and slimy as the scales of a fish. His vision focuses and clears for a moment and finally settles on the creature residing with him in the tub. It is a man, or what seems to be a man, with skin almost as pale as cream but tinted somewhat with blue, like this particular man never knew the concept of sunlight before. His hair, a shade of sea-green, is shaped into a mohawk and runs thickly along the top of his head and down his neck and back until it thins, ending in a cluster of scales. Then John notices the rest of him, more creature than man.

The rest of this frighteningly magnificent creature ends in the sinuous body of a snake with large scales like obsidian, shimmering in a blue light. The large tail curls and coils in and out of the black matter like a writhing tentacle, and just in that instant, John feels it advancing ominously towards him. Fear rips through him when the creature’s upper body lunges forward as well coming face to face with him. His eyes don’t seem human, heavily lidded and lazy; John watches him blink normally like a human but another set blinks as though it were two sliding doors of an elevator. John gulps.

“Because I do believe it wasn’t this Jim fellow that left you melting and just ready to burst only last night, was it?”

John shivers at the voice, sees a clawed hand reach towards his face, grasp his chin, and he freezes. His touch is surprisingly warm but the hold on him is menacing, firm, the razor sharp claw just under his jaw. One move and he’d be dead. John dares to swallow.

“Who the heck are you?” His voice is softer and more timid than he intends, and John grimaces inwardly at himself. Perfect, now this thing knows he’s scared.

This half man half… snake seems to bristle at his first question, and then he calms, relaxes his shoulders, and hisses out another sigh, amusement flecked in his amber, inhuman eyes. “Care to share your warm, soothing bath?” Each stress on the s makes John’s skin crawl but not necessarily in a revolting way. It is more alluring, whether intentionally or unintentionally; John begins to feel drawn to the very presence of this creature. And it appears that very creature knows. The light, mocking chuckle alone tells John he’s figured it out. “It’s been such a long, long time since then. The water up here is so cold, too cold, don’t you think? This is just right.” _Juuuusssst right. _

The creature doesn’t exactly wait for an answer and instead takes his position closer and closer towards John, and that coiled tail moves with him, dipping underneath, below the water, beneath John’s legs and buttocks, between them…

John stiffens like a taut rope and begins squirming, inching away, but the tail slithers in faster, scales brushing against his inner thighs, teasing him somewhat. The creature clicks his tongue, disappointed. “Sh, sh, sh!” he shushes him, though it sounds more like a monstrous hiss. Somehow the tail has managed to wind itself around both of John’s legs, tightening instantaneously. “Never found the presence of a little human in the water with me before.” While he speaks, John feels the rest of the tail coil and curl its way around his hips, and before he can raise his arms out of the way, they become pinned to his sides, bound heavily by the weight of this water monster’s body. Eventually more of him is trapped, wrapped in scales up to his shoulders. John struggles once but stops in the wake of the creature’s taunting chuckle.

“You’re quite pretty for a human,” he sighs, looming in closer. He pauses as if listening, waiting for a split second and then adds in a voice filled with marvel, “Your heart is beating so fast, little mouse.” John shudders at the hot breath that wafts against his neck, whines softly at the wet, forked tongue flicking out across his throat. “Relax. I just want a taste.” It does it again this time across his lips, poking and prodding as if demanding entrance. What does he intend to do with him? “Whatever I want.” John starts and another thought crosses his mind. Can he actually hear him? “Yes, I can, little mouse.” Fuck.

He has no other choice; John opens his mouth docilely, the coils of the tail rubbing against his body becoming more and more pleasurable to the touch and ushering another broken whine from his lips. Without a warning, the creature’s own mouth envelopes his greedily, sliding a slimy appendage down his throat that John can only guess is his tongue. He isn’t prepared for it. In fact, he has never been able to take something down his throat before without gagging profusely. John chokes once, feels the urge to vomit begin deep in the pit of his stomach, and squeals as loud as he can against the naga’s lips.

When he is finally released, John retches but holds back desperately, face going pallid, body falling weak. The naga chuckles again, more condescending this time. “Aww, sweet mouse, thought you would be used to it. Haven’t you ever pleased your precious boyfriend?”

Coughing and sputtering, John manages breathlessly, “Never… the whole… the whole thing before…”

With a gentler kiss against the side of John’s head, the naga hisses, so close to his ear that the tongue tickles him a little, “I’m more than certain you’re used to taking it in a different hole, hmm?”

John finds himself nodding submissively; he can’t help it. This magnificent monster has him under his thumb.

The tail eases on his legs as soon as he gives the affirmative and directly nudges his thighs apart without a word from him.

“N-now?” John stammers, terrified of the idea of allowing this creature to actually _fuck _him but more aroused now than ever.

The naga merely grunts in reply, apparently more turned on than he is. Before he knows it, John is brought to the creature by the guided direction of his tail, lifted up, manhandled until he is practically abreast against his chest, back end first before those glowing, inhuman eyes. John reddens at the position he’s in and whimpers softly, accepting his exposure before his captor and waiting almost in vain.

The strange sensation comes in mere seconds, like a warm burst of the heat of a fire yet wet like a sloppy kiss that slides over his trembling hole, circling once and then dipping in ever so slightly. John can barely choke back a squeak at the plunge and would have fallen limp against the lower body of the creature had it not been for the scales and coils that held his small body so tightly and securely. The naga hums once against him, opening him up skillfully from the inside, playing with his sweet spot with just the flick of his tongue. It sends small stars, mere sparks from embers lighting up behind his eyes, and John can’t hold back the moans now.

“Quite a vocal little thing, aren’t you?” His voice rumbles, vibrates obscenely against John’s skin, and he swears he could come right then and there, but the sea snake changes his position just as quickly as he had before. John finds himself face to face with those amber eyes, and for a moment he wonders if they just flashed blue before him, the most vibrant, bright kind of blue.

John blinks, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “You open up so well,” he hears the creature praise him, but he’s already gone, fully hard from that fucking tongue. And from there he can only say one word, find his voice to do one thing.

“Please,” John whimpers.

“Never been fucked before by the likes of me, have you, little mouse?” the naga smirks, his tail seeming to curl around John’s body in delight at his prey’s submissiveness. “Relax then for me.”

He’s being lowered down against the creature’s bottom half, but something aligns with his fluttering hole, just teasing him. John’s breath hitches, stutters, and he hears his captor sooth him from above, but all he thinks of is the first thick, frothing inch pushing in ever so slowly. As the second inch successfully makes its way in, John’s jaw drops open, slack, and a broken sound escapes. It’s big. _So big. _He doesn’t think he can take the whole thing much less a few more inches, centimeters even. He tries to protest but all that comes is pain and pleasure as the head of this monster’s cock nudges against his spot.

“Oh _fuck…_” John moans, the ribbed scales rubbing the inside of him until the embers become sparklers. His own cock jumps at the welcome intrusion. “Fuck!”

“Hush.” The naga chuckles greedily, bring the end of his tail to cover John’s mouth and smother his endless moans. “Wouldn’t want your boyfriend to hear you, would you?”

John tries to argue in defense, but the creature simply bucks up his hidden appendage into him until he bottoms out, filled to the brim. Another broken, sob-like moan erupts from his throat, muffled from what was meant to “shut him up”. The first thrust sends him squealing against his tail; the other makes him see stars. John’s never felt this full, not like this, and certainly not with Jim. Jim is huge, to be sure, larger than most, but he definitely does not have the cock of a sea monster. One thrust after the other continues in perfect rhythm, never missing a beat, never failing to touch John deep inside where he wants to be touched, and he feels as though he could just burst from that cock alone. Drops of pre-come leak from his head, and John wonders wildly just how much will come when the monster is through with him.

The naga leans back casually against the rim of the tub, head cocked to the side with a wide smile on his face as he watches John come undone. Each thrust becomes faster and harder, like he is reaching inside further than Jim ever had or ever will, and John makes a raw, carnal sound that he feels everything, fucked, ravaged, wrecked to near completion. His brows are furrowed, whines and moans muffled but heard by pleased ears, and even then, the water beast feels the slight clench of his hole around his cock, knows John’s at his limit, ready to release until there is nothing left.

So when he does finally let him come, the naga fucks once, twice, three times, good, slow, and hard into John until he spills, untouched, all over himself and the creature’s tail. John comes with a loud, ragged, raw moan, only made louder when the naga releases him, exposes him fully before him. His flesh is a rosy pink from his exertion, his nipples hard, his stomach concave, his chest heaving. A lovely sight and the creature tells him, snatching his hands with the end of his tail and holding them high above his head, out of reach while his tongue snakes out to wrap around his sore cock. John stiffens, but the naga keeps him still and on his thick, monstrous length until he coaxes the last bit out of him.

John’s senses are on overdrive, still feeling full, complete. He’s sensitive even when the water beast lets up, licks the cum from his chest, paying extra attention to his nipples just to hear him squeak again. Everything is fuzzy, vision hazy, and he can just barely feel himself being laid down as the sound of the drain, dull and numb, roars in his ears. John’s left in the empty tub, breath slowing down, vision fading to black. Then he hears that same voice, like a hiss, so far away, and knows that this was just the first of many.

“Until next time, little mouse.”


	2. John5 and the Terrible Bite!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets a lovely stranger at a night club one cold, snowy evening...
> 
> Song for the story: Never Land (A Fragment)- Sisters of Mercy and The Cold- Exitmusic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm... I wonder who this could be.   
To be honest, this was one of my favorite to write simply because I love vampires and the sensuality is perfect. 
> 
> -R

Outside snow falls like tiny, spitting drops of frozen tears, but inside is warm, dim, writhing, and sweaty. Too warm. John feels stifled in the musty heat of every overheated body in the overcrowded club. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come, he thinks ruefully to himself while surveying the exotic dancers, that couple sucking face over there, another dragging each other away to the bathroom for probably a quick fuck, all over the rim of his glass.

It’s not alcoholic in the slightest; see, John doesn’t exactly drink. Doesn’t smoke either. And he couldn’t feel more out of place in an environment filled with smoke and the stale stench of liquor. He’s already been groped twice by two completely different people whose faces he never caught a glimpse of nor did he give them permission to do so. John bites his lip in disgust and self-consciously tugs on his stockings, adjusts his crop top, wishes he had a better mirror to check himself than in the reflection of his glass.

That’s when he catches someone staring behind him.

The man stands there, decked out in leather, jacket, pants and all with an expression that proves he’s more than sure of himself; he’s full of himself. John whirls around, faces him from where he is. He’s fairly young, perhaps a bit older than John although those green eyes gazing into his very soul look as though they have seen things no man should ever be capable of seeing. Proud, alert, cunning, sad. So many emotions blazing within a forest on fire that John has to take a step back. The man takes a step forward, and John realizes he means to acquaint himself.

Rather than maintain his imposing mystique, the man seems to soften when he reaches John, drink in one hand, the other outstretched for him. “Couldn’t help but notice that you seem kind of lost in here.” John blinks and slowly accepts his hand. His voice is like velvet, nasally and deeper than John’s, a mixture of honey and vinegar, syrupy sweet and bitterly hard. Not exactly the kind of voice John expects from him; it sends goosebumps running up his arms, and he wishes he were in the comforts of his faux fur coat just now.

Instead, he attempts to relax with a grin and a light retort, “That might just be the cheesiest pick up line I’ve ever heard.”

It’s the man’s turn to blink, quite taken aback. He retracts his hand, but upon seeing John’s obvious shit-eating grin, his smile returns as well, wider, shyer maybe; John can’t really tell. “Can you blame a man for trying?”

John shrugs, trying to keep his eyes averted as much as possible. He can’t deny that the man before him is actually quite attractive in the strangest way possible. Grecian, hawkish with a hooked nose to match and a strong set jaw. The cupid’s bow of his lips is smooth and even, like the dip between two mountains. John already imagines what it must be like to kiss them. “I suppose I am a little lost in here.” Without him realizing, his voice has gotten softer. There’s something captivating about this man’s presence that John really cannot quite place.

The man maintains his smile and nods to the bar. “Let me buy you a drink then.”

“No, thank you,” John politely declines, automatically shaking his head. “I don’t drink.”

“Oh.” The man sets down his beer. “That’s a pity.”

“Is it?” John raises an eyebrow. This is a challenge already, he catches himself, and he wishes he doesn’t sound like an asshole.

“No,” the man agrees, and his smile is small, “I suppose it’s not. What’s your name?”

John relaxes. This guy seems friendly enough. “John. You?”

At this point, the man’s smile vanishes, and he glances to the side as if trying to focus his attention on something other than who’s before him. Could be easy, except he can’t settle on anything and returns his gaze back to John. “You can call me Michael.”

“Is that your real name?”

Michael shrugs, and as his leather jacket parts, John notices he isn’t wearing a shirt underneath. Perhaps he shouldn’t stare at that patch of smooth pale skin for too long or he’ll- “It is for tonight.” Reaching out a hand, Michael looks at him expectantly.

John stares dumbly, furrowing his brow in the cutest expression of confusion. “What?”

“Sisters of Mercy just came on,” the man rolls his eyes as if it isn’t completely obvious, “and I want to dance.” He grabs his hand this time, determination and something else set in those vivid green eyes. “So dance good.”

_Never Land (A Fragment) _plays distantly amidst the throng of raucous laughter, sighs, and chatter. John recognizes the slow, dark beat, not really his scene, but Michael seems more than eager, and he won’t allow himself to pass up the chance of dancing with this beautiful man. The synth pounds like thunder, rhythmic, sensual, and a higher pitch responds in echo. Michael, with John in tow, threads his way through the crowd, finds a space within the heat and pulls John towards him so that their chests touch. His hands move from John’s shoulders all the way down to his hips, pressing pelvic bone to pelvic bone and finally linking his hands around him at the small of his back.

“Bit forward, huh?” John smiles anyway, gingerly reaching up to rest his small hands on Michael’s shoulders, at the back of his neck, fingers threading through a mop of shaggy, black hair, longer than his wispy blonde waves.

Michael leans into the touch almost like a cat begging for another stroke and hums agreeably. His breath is hot against John’s neck, his hands warm at his back, and he presses his forehead against his, almost as if a mere centimeter apart would result in absolute tragedy. “I know what I want,” he murmurs, voice husky and low.

John sighs, wrapped in his voice, wrapped in him, skin tingling with arousal. Friction builds as the music picks up and as Michael’s lower half gyrates rhythmically against his, the hand at his back now at his neck and the other gripping his hip, urging, directing him on in the fluid, sensual wave they form together. It’s starting to feel good, John thinks, biting his lip and losing his grip on Michael. He lets his hands slide down from his shoulders and over his chest, pleased with the way it feels. Smooth and soft with just a patch of hair in between.

But he’s so cold. Like ice, his body seems to emanate it, and John shivers. “Is everything all right?” he asks, concerned. “You’re freezing.”

Rather than answer, Michael seems more focused on building the tension radiating between them and rocks his body more urgently against John’s, forcing a blatant moan from the latter’s lips and smirking at the result. John forgets all about the abnormal temperature of his body; the intense heat in Michael’s hands and breath makes up for all of it, and John wants to feel it all over his own trembling body. Sisters of Mercy appears to be getting louder, and there’s something about the way Michael looks at him or how he stares back that turns up the heat, makes him feel warm in the most pleasurable sort of way deep in the pit of his stomach.

Suddenly Michael turns the tables, asserting his dominance completely. John finds himself with his back to his chest, and a mixture of hot and cold envelopes around his vibrating body, pulsing with pleasure. Michael’s hands are everywhere, roaming down his sides, his hips, smoothing up his tummy, under his top, thumbing over his nipples. John’s hard and sensitive and wanton and draws this mysterious man in closer with his hand reaching back to wrap around his neck. Michael gives in and lets John pull him in for a searing, open-mouthed kiss, the first they share that night.

Moaning into the kiss, John grabs ahold of one of Michael’s hands, guides him down, whimpering softly into his mouth when he feels those fingers wrap around him and squeeze gently. Sparks fly behind his eyes while Michael’s body keeps him cool, from hot to cold, hot to cold. John doesn’t know whether he’ll come or pass out.

He doesn’t wait to find out. He wants more.

John whirls around, flushed and hard, and grabs Michael’s hand, yanking him through the crowd to which the latter doesn’t object. He knows what will happen, watching this pretty creature snatch his coat, wrap it around his lean body. Michael catches a glimpse of the soft dimples of John’s back and holds back a groan. He can’t wait to taste more of him. There’s something so incredibly sweet about the taste of John’s perfect flesh against his lips and tongue; Michael presses two fingers to his mouth as if the taste of him still lingers there. Delicious.

When John finds himself backed up against the building wall, he’s shivering. His breath is visible, mingling with the falling snow.

Michael stands between his legs, a knowing smile crossing his face. “Cold?”

He can only nod, whimpering not out of the freezing air but from the lack of Michael’s touch, his hands all over his body.

To his delight, one hand slides up his side while the other presses against his neck, holding him down against the wall. “Then I just need to warm you up,” Michael grins, eyes marveling over John’s avid responsiveness, his whimpers, whines, his pleas. Michael’s lips meet his briefly before sloppily moving along his jaw and down his neck, leaving behind a spit-slick trail.

“Please…” John begs, the only word he knows.

“You taste…” Michael growls between kisses and soft sucking sounds, “so… fucking… good.” He parts John’s fur coat, and John shivers violently. The cold greatly contrasts the man’s warm mouth. “Shh, baby. Gonna make you feel so hot.”

John feels a nip at his collarbone, and those hands pull up his crop top, nipples hard against the cool, dry air. Michael envelopes one in his mouth, anticipates the soft keen above him, and then moves to the other before continuing his journey down. Quick pecks pepper his tummy, and John glances down. Glowing green eyes gaze up at him somewhat adoringly, lips mouth at his flesh, hand gently tugging at the waistband of his shorts and tights.

“Pretty…”

Cursing obscenely under his breath, John gestures wildly. “Get up here. Need you. Please.”

Of course, Michael obeys. He can’t say no. Not to a pretty thing like John. John’s meant to be eaten and savored and relished. Embracing him like an illicit lover, John captures his mouth again this time desperate, frantic, greedy, perhaps even more ravenous than he is. Michael attempts to match it and John fights back, hands roaming over smooth, pale skin, stroking over places that make breaths hitch. Knowing he can’t keep control for long, John gives in, leans back his head, arches his back, bucking into Michael’s palm. He’s vulnerable and he knows it, but somehow he doesn’t care.

Reeling, Michael takes that as his chance. His head is spinning, so he focuses hard on John’s throat. Nothing’s pumping up there, but his temples throb at an insane pace as his lips brush over his neck. Finally. He feels John swallow and groans inwardly. This must be Hell and Heaven combined, lust and worship all wrapped in one passionate embrace, and Michael eventually opens his mouth wide and gives in.

There’s pressure, and John furrows his brow as he tries to keep his attention on the hand skillfully rubbing in between his thighs. The pain comes briefly but sharp, unexpected, and drawn out in an almost dulling, numbing effect. John’s heart thumps wildly in his chest, and he begins to feel his strength leave him. He would have simply allowed himself to drown in the arms of this mysterious man, but it is the pain that snaps him out of it.

“Wait…” John hears himself mumble but he starts to sound so far away. “What… what are you…” He tries to raise his hands, push against Michael’s chest, but he is restricted, arms and hands above his head. Something sickly warm trickles down from his neck. He tries to scream but all that comes out is a squeak. Like a television screen, everything grows fuzzy, spilling over like a mushroom cloud, puffy, clouded, stifling. And then it shuts off, fades to black, and John knows no more.

Warmth envelopes John pleasantly, and he stirs, drifting in and out of a dreamlike state as it caresses him to life. He almost smiles upon waking in a soft, cushy bed until memories of what happened flash back and forth through his mind. Dread fills him like bile in his stomach, and John stumbles awake, heart pounding violently out of his chest. Frantically he brings a hand to his neck and nearly whines in despair at the evident, indented wounds that meet his fingertips, still fresh. When he pulls back, he sees blood and feels like fainting all over again.

“Don’t touch it,” a gentle voice warns him from far away. “You’ll irritate it more.”

John starts upon hearing that voice. It’s _him_. It’s Michael. Michael did this. Either he has some perverted fetish for drinking the blood of another human being or he isn’t human at all. John does not know which is worse; all he can think about is the overwhelming fact that Michael kidnapped him, brought him back to his home, had literally sunk his teeth into him to drain him of what pumped in his veins. _Vampires don’t exist. _John looks toward him once, just a figure in the shadows and slides away from him as far as he can get against the headboard of the bed.

All around him are lit candles, emanating a soft, warm glow. Reminds him of something out of _Interview with a Vampire_. Fitting. Now he just has to prepare for death. John eyes Michael fearfully as he emerges and inches further away as if that will keep him safe.

Michael sighs. “I can’t ask you not to be afraid of me.” When John sees his face, he looks more than remorseful. “Especially when I took something that wasn’t mine.”

He gets closer, hand reaching out to stroke his cheek, maybe catch a wisp of a soft, blonde tendril between his fingertips, but John flinches away, and Michael bites his lip instead, glancing awkwardly to the side. “But I hope you can at least try,” he murmurs. When he looks at him again, John gets lost in those vibrant green eyes, a starker green than they had been hours ago and he remembers the need he felt for him when he held him in his arms, so possessively. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, John.”

At the mention of his name, John’s expression changes from fear to curiosity. “So you’re… you’re not human?”

Michael raises an eyebrow and flashes him an obvious look. “What do you think?”

For some reason, John blushes. Then he gets down from the bed, suddenly aided by this concerned creature, arms already outstretched, ready to catch him if he falls again. He reassures him. “I’m fine, I swear. I don’t think you took too much.” To prove it, he stands straight without swaying, backs away, and grabs his coat, prepared to leave. Something in him though, hopes, yearns that Michael will chase him, shut the door, beg him to stay. But he stays put, watches him reach the door, ready to let him go. This creature, someone who could snap his neck and drain him in less than thirty seconds probably. Someone who could kill him is letting him leave.

His voice is what keeps him from grasping the door handle.

“I still want you, you know.”

John turns, expectant now. Michael moves closer toward him, and his eyes reveal that same longing that John is afraid to admit. He wets his lips.

“Not just your blood, although it was nothing like I’ve ever tasted,” he explains casually but there is a hidden darkness to his voice, more than just desire. John finds himself as before, backed up against the door with Michael this close to him, an inch away. The ice from his body sends him in shivers while the heat from his breath mingles with his own. “Sweet,” he continues. “Like fucking candy. And the only way I could enjoy it is keeping you at my mercy, watching you open up your veins for me until I suck you dry.”

John’s cock twitches at the thought of it, but he suppresses a moan. He doesn’t know why that turns him on, but perhaps it is Michael’s fucking restraint holding him back from slaughtering him instantly. Because he realizes he wants to be at his mercy. He remembers the touch of his fingers caressing him, the heat from his palms urging him to completion.

“But your body,” Michael almost groans, eyeing him up and down, “that’s what I want most of all.” He presses his forehead to his, an intimate gesture, and John’s breath hitches in his throat, felt by Michael’s hand resting there; he’s determined to memorize him it seems, body and soul, every noise, every move he makes. “I want to know it all,” he growls, “every arch of your back, every rise and fall of your chest, every sound of pleasure you make, I want to feel it. I want to _taste _it. I want to give it to you.” He raises two fingers to his lips, brushes against his lower lip. It’s like lyrics of a song he recites to him and his growl deepens when he finishes, “I want to _fuck _you like an _animal_.”

John’s body vibrates with need, and a small sound affirming it reaches Michael’s ears. “I want you too,” he whines.

“Then is this permission?” John practically relishes the grunt of need he hears from the creature hovering over him. He nods and grasps the collar of his jacket, pulling him closer so he can feel him. His “yes” is swallowed by Michael’s searing kiss, and he finally lets him in.

John sits languidly against the pillows, watching Michael sleep. Most of the candles had gone out. “My own personal sun” he remembers him saying about the flames. Keeps him comfortable, close to human. The day came and went. John had gotten up, closed the curtains before the sun rose high in the sky, taken a shower, and ate and hydrated as he still felt weak from the night before. Not just from the passionate, time-stopping sex.

Now he sits, studying the two puncture wounds at his inner thigh. And he regrets none of it. Michael had been passionate, possessive, _protective_, everything John wanted in a lover that night, and John gave him more for it. He had watched the way his eyes had visibly darkened, nearly to black, seen the animal within him, the obsessive demon, the distorted face of the creature within, and he had not been afraid. Michael’s fangs, the way they had grazed over his skin, assured pleasure with the pain, leaving John reeling and writhing for him. He remembers the raw voice that had broken through from the back of his throat. It had begged him for more, murmured it against Michael’s red lips, stained with his blood.

John remembers tasting himself on his tongue.

He smooths his thumb over his thigh one last time and then gets up, searching for his coat. A hand grasping his forearm stops him.

“Don’t leave.” Michael’s eyes plead with him, and that hand wrapped around his wrist tightens ever so slightly, desperately. “Please.”

John’s eyes soften. “I’ll have to leave soon.” But he climbs back into bed with him, leans down, brushes his lips tenderly over Michael’s.

“Stay,” his lover murmurs into the kiss, moans when John’s hand smooths up his thigh and hip, down his back.

“Do you get lonely often?” John asks and peppers Michael’s neck and shoulder with kisses. “I can’t stay forever, you know.”

“Hush,” the creature relaxes into his arms, eases into his chest, closes his eyes. “For now, this moment is forever. Let me have it.”

John allows it and buries his face in the dip between his shoulder and neck, breathing in the scent of his hair deeply. He can’t seem to get enough of him. And he’s right. This moment can last forever if he’ll let it. John smiles at that against Michael’s flesh and kisses him gently there, pleased with the sigh in response.

“You never told me your real name,” he reminds him nonchalantly, playing with strands of his creature’s shaggy black hair.

The man lying next to him turns and gazes up at him, almost as if searching for something in John’s eyes. Some form of doubt or distrust. He finds none and smiles.


	3. John5 and the Beast!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something wrong with John's boyfriend, Jim. 
> 
> Song for the story: Run Boy Run- Woodkid, The Werewolf of Wysteria- John5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some blood and violence. It’s not too much but if you’re queasy I gotta warn ya my loves. Expect hot romance soon.
> 
> -R

John’s lungs burn.

Every tree looks the same to him, and it seems as though he’s running in circles, getting nowhere, losing time, losing stamina. While his brain fights to keep going, to keep _running_, it’s his body that loses the will to persevere. His lungs scream for him to stop, his throat closes, goes dry, and his knees give out. John goes down before he realizes it, hard on his hands and knees, and he falls forward with a thud and a pained grunt. Even then, as half of his mind begs him to get up, keep going, _please_, the other half tells him it’s perfectly all right to just lie there, catch his breath, he certainly can’t assume he’s able to keep running all night long.

But then something shifts in the woods, twigs snap, leaves and brambles rustle, and John knows, just fucking knows by the ominously threatening sound of heavy, inhuman footsteps catching up to him that this little chase is far from over. He stumbles to his feet frantically and with a bit of reluctance and tries to keep going.

If he stops again, he’ll _die_.

Running is harder this time, much harder. It’s easy to trip when a million thoughts flood his brain, easier to lose his way, easiest to just give up. And it’s getting closer, ushering in the death rattle behind it. John makes the mistake of looking behind him once and instantly regrets it.

He’s there. Right behind him. Bounding forward on all fours, fur bristled, and golden eyes blazing. A killer instinct. John gives a loud, short cry at the sight of sudden death behind him and picks up speed, huffing and puffing along the way. The ground rushes to meet him before he can catch himself. He hasn’t even realized he’s tripped again until half of his face and body erupts in pain from falling down. John grunts, lets out a sharp breath, and squeezes his eyes shut only for a moment to collect himself. It’s his second mistake tonight.

He hears a growl and snaps his head up toward the sound. From there he knows he’s fucked.

John gulps and stares briefly into the face of the beast. His black maw drips with thick, frothing saliva, eyes glowering like flames flickering in the night. They pinpoint on John’s small body, and a deep rumble erupts from his large chest as he finds his prey. He’s still on all fours, back arched ominously and fur standing on end. The razor sharp points of his claws dig into the damp dirt as his paws stamp into the ground. John doesn’t know what he’s looking at as he scrambles to his feet and doesn’t understand how this can be possible. But he refuses to wait to find out.

John just has to get to safety, wait this out, just until he calms down. Just until daybreak.

He takes a hesitant step back, but the beast is much faster and prowls to the other side, his growl deepening, breaking into a snarl and snap of teeth and fangs. _He’s going to die, he’s going to die, he’s going to die, he’s- _The wild creature lunges forward, interrupting all frantic thought, and John, for a brief second, assumes it’s over. He’s on his back with a large paw slammed into his chest, pressing and pressing him down deeper into the earth. If he pushes down any harder, John could break, snap like a twig. He chokes back a sob and screams instead, flailing his arms and attempting to push himself up and out from under the weight of the monster, and just when he’s managed to turn over and try to at least crawl away, a deafening roar reaches his ears. It’s like thunder and gravel on the asphalt mixed together in a terrible cacophony of sound. It takes John only a split second to realize he’s been hit.

An agonized shriek breaks form his lips as those cutting edge claws rake down his back, tearing his shirt to ribbons, breaking skin. Another scream stutters out, like a heaving sigh, and John squirms away, feeling himself bleed through his clothes. He knows he won’t get away this time, knows that this is probably the last time he’ll be able to draw breath. He prepares for death until the creature’s meaty paws wrap around his waist and hips and haul him up off the earthen ground, holding him like he is nothing. A choked out groan falls from his lips as John bares with the sensation of being lifted up into the air and turned around. He faces the wild countenance of the monster, who continues to snap his teeth at him, lips and black maw pulled back to reveal just how he will be slaughtered tonight.

John cries, the tears flowing now, leaving black streaks down his cheeks, and he struggles this time in attempts to fight death at the inevitable. The creature roars again, and flecks of saliva spray John’s face while he squirms. This is it. He’ll either be bitten and become just like him, or he will be mauled to death, his body parts strewn about the woods for the unfortunate to find him later once he is long dead. Just as the beast prepares to dash his head against a stone or tree and rip into his body, John screams for the final time and forms one word he hopes the creature will recognize.

“_Jim!_” The monster stops, all growling ceases, and John continues desperately. “Please, Jim. Stop this, please. I know you can. I _know _you know it’s me! It’s John! Please!”

He doesn’t set him down just yet, but all threat seems to clear like vapor. The beast grunts gruffly, short, almost in confusion and lifts one clawed finger covered in fur to John’s cheek. John watches it still shaking as though it is meant to puncture his eyes. But it doesn’t. Instead it strokes down his cheek, along his jawline as tenderly as a beast can make it, and John instantly shudders against his touch, not in fear, but in relief.

“Jim…” he murmurs, but his voice sounds weak.

The Jim inside hears him, and the fire in those eyes starts to go out. As gently as he can, Jim lays him down against the damp earth and hovers over him as if in protection. More of guilt. His eyes are filled with it, acknowledging that he hurt him. He hurt John. And John sees it, sees the deep regret in those sad eyes, lingers on the beauty of them and it’s like he’s staring into the face of Jim who was once human. He hears a whine, like that of a dog and realizes it is Jim making that noise above him. Telling him how sorry he is as he nuzzles his neck and softly licks his cheek. John smiles warmly, reassuringly up at him, raises a trembling hand, and runs his fingers through his thick fur. While most of it feels coarse and somewhat scratchy, the underside of Jim’s neck is soft, downy fur. A low rumbling reaches John’s ears, and it only takes a second for him to realize that Jim enjoys this, the way he touches him, the way no human would dare touch him.

“Take me home?” John sits up and stares expectantly up at Jim. “Please, Jim.”

At the mention of his name, Jim complies, gets off of John and down on all fours, low on the ground while he hobbles towards him. John swings his legs over his large body and clings his knees to his sides. He leans forward and rests on his front, burying his face in that thick, shaggy fur. The smell of earth and petrichor floods his nose, nearly masking over the distinct scent of Jim’s sweet cologne. It lulls him, wraps him in warmth and protection, and John, with a soft hum, allows his eyes to slide shut, allows his mind to drift.

Jim whining and pawing at the back door wakes John up from his prison of sleep.

Inside a cold staleness greets them both, and John rushes to the thermostat. He almost grins at the sound of Jim bounding in after him. Almost. He still does not know what to make of this situation. His boyfriend of three years just so happens to be werewolf, and he never knew. How long has it been? Has he wanted to tell John but just never had the guts to do it? Has he suffered in the oblivion of John not knowing? John bites his lip, wishing the thoughts away but still resting on wondering how much pain Jim must be in.

The soft noise of someone sniffing around by his lower back snaps John out of it. “Jim,” he says firmly, “go to the bedroom and try to sleep. I just need a shower. I’ll be there soon.” After he figures out what to do with his back.

A growl erupts deeply behind him, and John whirls around, eyes pinpointed on the ground, but unbeknownst to him, Jim has risen to his clawed feet. John gulps and swallows hard as his eyes follow up Jim’s massive body and land on his changed face.

“Go-”

Jim has no intention of listening to him at this moment, and John yells out in alarm as he roughly spins him around and tackles him to the floor. The fear returns. All John can do is cower in dread, beg and plead for his life. “Jim!” But Jim isn’t listening anymore, and one paw-like hand holds him down just over the round curve of his rump while the other gathers his frayed shirt and rolls it up to his shoulders. The whine tells John he sees what he’s done to his flayed back, but the growl only returns as John struggles more. The hand on his lower back presses down firmly as if ordering him to stay calm.

“Jim, st-”

John gasps, more like a sharp intake of breath. There are days in his life where he thought he’d never get the chance to experience this strange sensation, but the wet trail left behind by Jim’s large, warm tongue explains quite the opposite, and he shudders. Jim is _tasting _his blood. John whimpers and squirms, but the hands hold him down securely while Jim licks up his back three more times and then release him. John spins around and stares wildly at the beast, who merely stalks away into the bedroom and leaves him alone to blink in astonishment.

They’re gone.

John inspects his back one last time in front of the mirror, utterly perplexed yet satisfied. Not a deep scratch in plain sight. All that is left are red welts in the final stages of healing. John reaches behind to touch one just to make sure this is all real. He eyes the bloodied, torn shirt in a pile by the rest of his soiled clothes. All very real.

Jim’s breaths are even with just a hint of a growl in each exhale as he sleeps. John watches him, drying his hair nonchalantly, and approaches the side of the bed. His eyes marvel over his other body. Jim has the face and body of a beast, though hominoid in structure, long and muscular with claws and fangs and everything in the whole package needed to make a cliché 1930s horror movie. Though much more terrifying. And yet, his resolve for human reason had returned once he had realized he almost killed John.

John smiles at that thought. It only takes the sound of his voice for Jim to calm down, and that alone makes his heart skip a beat. Tentatively reaching out a hand, John tenderly pets Jim’s head, strokes his fur, and then climbs into bed beside him.

He spends pure minutes on his side watching him sleep, mesmerized by the steady rise and fall of his expansive chest. John’s eyes adore him, every twitch of his claws in his sleep, every soft rumble from his chest. He’s in awe of him, John realizes and remembers the gentle caress Jim gave him when he figured out it was him. He still feels the touch, the light brush of fur against his cheek. Something in his brain, in every nerve ending, in his beating heart tells him he wants to feel it again. Tracing a finger over a rippling muscle, John finds himself sliding closer. This isn’t just fascination. It’s become pure need now. Heat begins to swell from John’s fingers down towards the pit of his stomach.

Softly, with all the courage he can muster, he leans forward and kisses him, right on his furry cheek. Earth and Jim. If he could package it into a bottle, he would wear it forever.

Jim’s eyes open slowly, and instead of becoming violent, he glances John’s way, the eyes of the beast filled with more uncertainty than anything. John kisses him again, this time on the tip of his nose, and Jim makes a gruff, agreeable sound in the back of his throat. Taking that as his chance, John gets on top, hands splayed out over Jim’s chest. He kisses there too and feels those claws at his hips, careful not to hurt him.

“I wish…” he wonders aloud, “I wish we could…”

He is only half hard while he continues to kiss Jim all over, nuzzling his face into his neck, and then he feels the appendage nudging him between his legs and against his underwear.

“Jim…”

John glances behind and groans inwardly. Jim is fully erect. His red cock seems to pulse, much larger than when he is human, and when John looks close enough, he spots a knot, almost as large as a tennis ball close to the base. He gulps and turns back to Jim with wide eyes. The latter stares expectantly, but a sense of reassurance seems to wash over John by just the eyes alone. Another deep growl comes but more like a purr, protective, perhaps somewhat encouraging.

From the escalated turn of events, John is only slightly bewildered by the overwhelming fact that he is fingering himself while gyrating uselessly on top of his boyfriend. And not just two fingers. Four slick fingers slide in and out of his stretched hole. John whines filthily. He doesn’t feel nearly as stretched enough but he also doesn’t want to waste anymore time and pulls them out reluctantly. Jim’s cock seems to glare at him, and when he takes it into his hands, it feels hot to the touch, all the while pulsing blood, oozing pre-come. John raises himself, guides the head to his waiting hole, and slowly, gradually lowers himself down. The first real stretch from just the head is painful enough, but sliding down quells his discomfort. John bites his lip, squeezes his eyes shut tight, as tight as they’ll go, bites back a moan. He has only to get to the knot as he nears the base and shakes with every inch that goes in.

Jim senses he’s already overexerted himself, stops him only for a moment to guide him instead, paw-like hands on his hips, slowly, gently pushing him down.

This stretch is razor sharp, filling, and John’s jaw goes slack as his body willingly gives with it. With one large gasp, he finally feels himself bottom out, thoroughly stretched beyond his limit and begins to pant heavy and fast, utterly disoriented, unable to know where to go from here. One clawed hand from Jim moves from his hip up towards his neck and down his chest, already wet with sweat. John shudders from the comforting touch, lets out a long “mmm…” through closed lips, and throws his head back.

“Hurt me…” he sighs. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s saying. All he knows is that he _wants _Jim, needs him just like this.

Jim sits up, large hands wrapped around John’s waist, and licks along his neck and jaw. John closes his eyes at the strange sensation, rests his hands on Jim’s shoulders, his own nails digging in as he begins to rock, nice and slow. Nice and slow. Jim’s muscles clench under John’s fingers while he holds him tighter against him. His first rut inside has John spasming and gasping, hands scrambling down his back as if he could leave marks there. Silently he begs Jim to pick up the pace, _please_, and just fucking _take him_, and Jim feels his need, hears his moans, grows harder inside of him as he ruts in deeper.

“**John...**”

More like a growl than an actual voice, but John hears it as he’s toppled onto his back, legs spread wide for Jim to rut into him faster. He snarls and snaps, domineeringly, and John gives a short cry. The claws at his calves cut in, drawing blood, hot and thick down his legs.

“Hurt me,” John begs, “please, Jim.”

It’s nothing for the beast to pull out, sending another cry from John, and throwing him on his front, ass up, upper half pressed into the mattress and shaking with desire. John screams when he plunges in again, right up to the hilt, and immediately feels the tears prick his eyes. It’s glorious. Every thrust, every rut rubs against his spot. John nearly goes cross-eyed from the pleasure.

“Jim… Jim- fuck!”

“**John...**” the creature above him purrs, raking his claws down his back, most pleased with the pleasured and pained whine that comes from it.

His thrusts grow harder, rougher; John grunts, sobs brokenly with each one, the force of some almost sending him over the side of the bed. He feels the knot, whines at the stretch, digs his fingers into the sheets as if to rip them apart. He himself feels ripped apart, and he smiles somewhat drunkenly. Of everything he’s ever felt with Jim, he’s never felt anything like this, of being fucked, raw until he’s practically screaming Jim’s name, nearly all screamed out. His screams aid Jim to completion, and he growls deep like thunder, spilling his seed inside John’s tiny body. It comes hot and thick and endlessly, the force of it spurring on John’s orgasm, untouched. Jim, in a violent frenzy, falls forward and bites into his shoulder as he comes, his whimpers urging him to keep fucking into him in his high.

John gives a short, little “ah, ah, ah!” as he releases all over his stomach and the bed sheets, the ever-forceful thrusting of Jim’s cock milking him through it as even more comes. Overstimulated, engulfed in both ecstasy and pain, John flings his head back with one last cry until there is nothing left to give.

A strangled noise escapes John’s lips when Jim pulls out for the last time, but the soft, therapeutic laving of his tongue up his back and over towards his shoulder makes up for the absence of something fulfilling inside of him. He purrs and rolls over, head and arms hanging over the side of the bed like a rag doll. John certainly feels like one.

The bed shifts, and Jim collapses on his side, unconsciously beckoning John closer to him. He crawls in, completely enveloped by Jim’s large, strong arms in a warm embrace, the pleasant sensation of downy fur rubbing against his flesh.

Tomorrow, everything will be normal again. Everything will be back to the way it always was, and Jim will be human again. But for now, John smiles and buries his face into his fur, waiting for much needed sleep.


	4. John5 and the Minister from Hell!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father Warner isn't one to diddle alter boys but he isn't exactly holy.
> 
> Song for the story: Apple of Sodom- Marilyn Manson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O-Kay!  
So this one contains rape and I’m gonna be real. This demon isn’t going to be very nice to John. If you would like to skip this one go right ahead. Protect your brain my loves.
> 
> -R

John is not exactly a religious young man, but he cannot deny that the only thing that keeps him coming to church every Sunday is the young priest, Father Warner.

So when he finally enters the confessional, he is shocked to find he’s entered the wrong one. There is nothing barring his way, keeping him hidden from Father’s knowing gaze. John finds himself face to face with the man who floods his mind with blasphemous thoughts every night, looking him right in the eye. Even in his shame and embarrassment, John can’t bring himself to avert his gaze. Finally he forces his head down to stare at the floor while he utters those familiar words.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Yes, indeed, you have, haven’t you, John?”

Certainly not the expected response, and bewildered, John snaps his head up, confused. “Father?”

The priest hums condescendingly and promptly leans back in his seat. “You’ve come here to me because you have been thinking dirty thoughts,” he sneers, “the most vile, putrid thoughts, thoughts that could leave you a spot on the oneway train straight to fire and brimstone. What exactly do you have to say for yourself, John? Will you share with me what these thoughts are that roam your mind?”

John is speechless. “I… I…” Frankly, he doesn’t know what to say. Father Warner is correct on all accounts, but how he can come to know strikes John’s heart in fear.

“Allow me to answer for you,” the priest sighs disinterestedly. “You want me to pin you against the wall, strike you with a Bible while I fuck you senseless, making you recite scripture and hitting you for every incorrect word, every pause. You wish I’d let you suck this big, thick cock, don’t you? Suck it good until I absolve you for every sin you commit with me. And after I make you choke on it, you beg for me to baptize you with my seed. Now tell me, John, am I wrong in any of these assumptions?”

John is more than frightened. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, searching for words that won’t come. Swallowing hard, all he can muster is one question while trying to ignore the fact that he is indeed a little bit hard right now. “How do you know all this?”

Father Warner’s face breaks out into a wild, wide grin, more diabolical than holy, more cunning and sinister, like a curse rather than a blessing. He leans forward and brings one finger to his full lips.

“Shh…” and his eyes seem to change instantly, from warm brown to golden amber to jet black, as ebony as his robe, as hollow as Hell. “Does this answer your question?”

John scrambles from his seat, backs himself into the door, breathing heavy, frantic breaths. “What are you?”

The creature rolls his eyes. “A bit dense.” That grin returns, and the teeth look rather sharp, threatening, as if they could sink into John’s flesh and cut him in two. John’s heart pounds wildly when he thinks he sees saliva slowly start to drip down from his lower lip. The strand breaks, drops onto his robes, and John watches it fall, knowing something is desperately _wrong_.

**Close your fucking mouth, you filthy piece of shit and stand up straighter. Is this how you enter the fucking house of God?**

John’s breath hitches sharply in his throat, and he tastes bile; he feels the ever turning and twisting of his guts, like they writhe in his fear, so fearful he feels sick, but he obeys on pain of death even. The voice is nothing like he’s ever heard before, like tinted glass, alcohol gone sour, yet smooth and nauseatingly sweet in its deep, rich undertones.

**You filthy, fucking ** _ **sinner** _ **. **

“Please don’t hurt me,” he trembles. His pleas fall on amused ears and the creature or demon or whatever he is barks out a laugh, a taunting laugh.

**Hurt you? Oh, little human, I want to hurt you in so many… ** _ **other ** _ **ways, however, I’d rather play with you a little before I decide what to do with you. **

John sniffs wetly. He can hardly believe he’s actually crying. “Father…”

**Enough of that title. **The demon huffs in boredom. **Men like that have been known to diddle boys almost as pretty as you with that title. It’s a guise for their service to me, symbolizing them as the insignificant worms that they are. **As he speaks, John watches one eye, black as obsidian, glow white around the irises. Like he is expecting him closely. A cat to a mouse. **But you. **That twisted smile forms again, the sight of it making John want to retch. No human being could stand to look into those eyes and fixate on that awful, abnormally beautiful smile for too long. They would go mad. **You are a man. You at least deserve to know my name. **

John would rather run.

**On your knees, little human. Know your master: Manson, the Marquis of Worms, the Prince of Hell. **

Something shoves him down, and John gives a little cry. It’s hot and wet on his back, like a large tongue, and with a harsh blow, John stays down. Manson chuckles low.

**And they shall be made to crawl on their bellies into the Kingdom of Darkness. **

John cries fervently now, hands clenching into fists on the ground and understands his command. He crawls toward the demon, trembling violently as he goes. A deep rumble springs from the dark deity’s chest and sounds satisfied at the state his prey is in. The wet appendage nudges him along continuously until John’s forehead bumps into the creature’s knee. He glances up, eyes wet with fear and tears and waits for his terrible voice.

Two fingers tip his chin up. John doesn’t know how he can even bear to look into those inhuman eyes for long. In his peripheral vision, he spies another member like a tentacle perhaps flick and curl out past him. **It’s time we made these fantasies a reality, hmm? **John whimpers and tries to shy away, but the grip on his chin hardens like steel. **Oh no, no, no, little human. You stay right here. You should be happy. You’re getting what you always wanted. **The demon parts his robes and exposes himself before John, pleased with the soft gasp he emits. He’s huge, and John had expected nothing less. He makes another wet, sniffling noise, and his lower lip trembles as he wonders how exactly Manson will make him fit it into his mouth. It won’t go well for him, he assumes ruefully.

**Open up.**

Manson grins down at him, and a shadow hangs over them both, covering the demon like a shroud and surrounding John in total darkness. Resting a hand on his head, he forces his mouth down onto his cock without a warning. John’s gag reflex kicks in, but he’s held down almost as if the demon dares him to spit up all over his massive length. To gain some sense of control in the situation, John flails his arms and finds Manson’s hips. Something yanks his arms back behind him as he does so with the same wet sensation as before, and he’s instantly pulled up by his hair to gaze into the face of this demon once more.

**Touch me again, and you will fucking regret it. **

John swallows hard and then makes a strangled sound as he is slammed down again, the writhing appendages holding him in place this time.

**Tell me, John: how exactly will you be able to recite scripture with a mouth full of cock?**

A strained whine pierces through from the back of John’s throat, muffled.

**What’s that? I didn’t quite catch that. **John hates the laughter, like dark, tinkling bells vibrating in the back of his throat. Manson holds his head there now, fist squeezing in his hair, cock fucking and rutting and slamming down his throat. John’s lungs burn, and his legs thrash and kick behind him but to no avail. Nothing is in his control except for his ears, listening to the taunting laughter above him. When Manson finally does relent, John pulls off his length with a heaving gasp for air, coughing and sputtering between wheezes and sobs.

**Oh, sweet, little human. Had too much? **

John stiffens, feels one of those tentacles, black and sleek and slimy as he sees them slide under the waistband of his pants and underwear, pull down roughly, fluidly. He tries to protest, but another crawls into his mouth, and he chokes.

**We’re not done yet. **

John tries to whine but it ends in a screech as the frothing, slimy member behind him slithers between his cheeks and plunges in. He continues to scream, and the tentacle only slides in further, deeper. Whatever is coated on the appendage seems to aid in stretching him open, but the burning friction that comes with it regardless leaves John writhing in pain. The monster grumbles pleasantly above him, curling the tentacle inside him. Suddenly with every bit of him restrained, John feels himself being lifted into the air.

**You feel amazing, pretty thing. Tight and hot around me. **Manson leans back against the confessional chair, thumb stroking his lower lip, that same grin twitching on his diabolically beautiful face. John, vision blurry, somehow sees sharp, black talons he never saw before. **Do you feel me there? Do you feel me inside you? Is this what you wanted? **

Against the searing pain, something heavy swirls in the pit of John’s gut, makes his own cock twitch against his will. He glances down at his hard dick, leaking and aching desperately, and his eyes widen while a strangled, muffled whimper escapes his throat. The pleasure isn’t his own, but it engulfs him like tingling sparks encasing every inch of his body. Flinging back his head, John moans loudly, and the demon titters softly beneath him, urging the member deeper and deeper inside him that it rubs him in just the right way.

**Filthy little sinner. No, this is exactly what you wanted, pretty human. Take it. Let me hear you. **

John fights the obscene bliss that tugs at him to obey. He struggles and flails, but the thick, wet appendage works him from the inside out, open, vulnerable, works him to completion. It’s filthy and sinful and wrong, but as he spills out over himself and down on the creature below with a broken whine, nothing seems more _right_. Manson lowers him forcefully onto the floor with a loud thud and releases him carelessly. He’s wrecked and shaking, covered in his own sweat and cum.

**Mmm… I would mark you up. Leave my mess all over your lovely body, tear your clothes to ribbons so everyone would know what I’ve done to you, but perhaps I’ll allow you to keep this our dirty little secret, precious whore. Perhaps I’ll come to you again. **

John leaves the confessional, leaves the church dazed, unable to remember the last time he felt that full, that broken, that deliciously vulnerable. He’s scarred yet strangely satisfied, his mind filling with the thoughts and ideas on how to summon a demon. A demon to fuck him senseless, loading him with his hot, unholy seed.


	5. John5 and the Sticky Situation!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds himself at the mercy of a curious dryder. 
> 
> Song for the story: Home- Colin Stetson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have major arachnophobia but to be honest it was pretty much one of my favorites to write. Also I may have thought of a certain someone who loves spiders and tarantulas when I wrote it so. Embracing my fear in this way was fun. (Hehe)
> 
> -R

When John wakes up, he cannot move.

He tries to wiggle his fingers, but finds them instead stuck to each other along with his arms, hanging high over his head. He’s upside down, utterly naked, and clinging to more of the sticky substance that also binds his hands and arms together. For a moment, John panics. He’s in a web of some sort, ginormous and covered in a thick matter, stickier than glue, and no matter how he struggles, his efforts are futile, the web only tugging him back into place. It wobbles and vibrates with every move he makes, which seems to wake up someone else present with him.

_Don’t struggle. You’ll only wear yourself out. My webs will never break unless I allow it. _

Stalking before him on eight spindly legs is an indescribably terrifying creature, half spider and strikingly, half man. His lower half consists of the large body of an arachnid, black and sleek with a sort of ribbed front for a belly. His upper half however, is that of a man with pale skin and long, jet black hair. The only thing quite abnormal about this man aside from the rest of his body and his four arms are his eyes, or the many that spill out over his forehead with the two that stare directly at John, and a set of hooked fangs above his full lips. John tries to scream, but no sound can manage to come. Noticing this, the creature scurries toward him rapidly, and John, paralyzed with fear, shuts his eyes.

Nothing happens. Nothing for a good full minute, and John realizes he has to give in and crack open his eyes only slightly.

The arachnid beast stares right back at him, all eyes blinking as one and fangs twitching somewhat curiously. _Do I scare you, little one? _John has never heard a voice quite like that. Hard like wheels on gravel yet lilting, each sentence ending in a distinct hiss. John doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t bother to answer for fear of what may happen next.

_You should be scared._

The dryder eyes him up and down, all eight eyes raking their way along his body. It makes his face heat up, and he squirms.

_You were going to be my next meal. _

Strangely enough, John summons the courage to finally speak, yet his voice is soft, almost barely audible. “Why haven’t you eaten me? Are you going to let me go?”

_I have no intention of letting you go. _Perhaps he should not have asked. The creature hisses again, almost like the rattle of a rattlesnake. _But I don’t want to hurt you. You’re much too… pretty. _

John almost breathes a sigh of relief, but he focuses on his last sentence. When he finds the mental strength to stare up into the face of his seemingly gentle captor, he finds something in those eyes, more than just typical animal instinct. There’s curiosity etched within, the hint of yearning just a whisper beneath. He isn’t sure, but John starts to understand that the creature is true to his word and does possibly mean him no harm.

“Then… then what do you want with me?” Surprisingly, the question holds no fear.

The creature looks uncertain for a moment, almost uncomfortable, fidgety. _May… may I…? _

John stares expectantly.

_May I know what you feel like? I’ve never touched a human before… _If a dryder could blush.

Not knowing why, John nods immediately and his eyes flit towards the long fingered hands of his captor. He reaches one out, and something that sounds like a pleasured hiss comes out when he finally rests it on John’s tummy. _Soft. _From there, his fingers trail up his ribs, counting them like piano keys, and he lays his palm on his chest, splayed and waiting. _Is that your heart? It’s beating so fast… _Those eyes flit his way, concerned. _Am I frightening you? _John quickly shakes his head and almost smiles assuredly at him. But then his gaze turns to focus between his legs, and the dryder follows.

_Oh._

John can’t help it really. He’s pinned down by a creature twice his size deep in the woods who takes great curiosity in touching him ever so gently. The next hiss sounds more like a husky chuckle, and John’s half-hard cock twitches slightly.

_Is this giving you pleasure? Me touching you like this? _

He can only nod.

The dryder’s fingers trail further down, pause at his navel just above his cock. _Yes? _

John nods wildly this time, practically whines as soon as he feels that hand wrap around his now stiff length fluidly. His thumb just brushes over the head, and John’s chest heaves at that smallest touch. At the smallest, softest sound, the curious creature continues avidly, determined to expel more sweet sounds from his wet, parted lips. _Beautiful. _John blushes at the compliment. _You are quite beautiful for a human. _

Whining when he retracts his hand, John watches as the dryder observes the strands of pre-come that stick between his fingers. _Curious… _Then he brings them to his lips, and John moans inwardly as he sucks them clean. The creature eventually moans with him, apparently delighted. _Sweet. So sweet… _he murmurs in wonder. _Perhaps if I… _

He lowers his mouth down, takes him in whole, and John keens, straining against his bonds. The magnificently terrifying arachnid drinks him in like nectar of the gods, hand moving under his lower back and caressing him there. John automatically arches into it and continues to moan, those moans only rising in pitch and volume until he comes down the creature’s throat, bucking up once, twice against him. When the dryder finally pulls away, he’s licking his lips, his fangs, giving a pleasured hiss, content.

_No. Perhaps I won’t eat you. But maybe I’ll _eat _you instead. _Another chuckle. _You’re simply too sweet for me to give up. And I can’t mate with you, so maybe this makes up for it. _

Blissed out and breathless, John gazes at the beast climbing over top of him, watches his fangs twitch, his many eyes surveying him in desire. In a tender, possessive act, his captor smooths his thumb over his lower lip and speaks for the final time.

_Sleep here, pretty human. I’ll return for more. _

His stinger comes out without warning, and John feels it stick in his chest before retracting as quick as it came. The world swirls around him until it finally fades to black, and John drifts into dreams of ecstasy.


	6. John5 and the Freak from Outer Space!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In space no one can hear you scream."
> 
> -Inspired by the films "Alien", "Prometheus", and REC 2
> 
> Song for the story: 4 Preludes Op. 28: No. 15 in D-Flat Major “Raindrop”, Too Close- Prometheus, Hammerpede- Prometheus, The Blessing- Midsommar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually one of my favorites to write. I was glued to my computer screen.
> 
> Warning for violence and horror elements! Just imagine you’re watching one of those movies and the hammerpede scene comes on in Prometheus. It’s like that. Gotta shout out my boy Ridley Scott. 
> 
> -R

**AUTHORIZATION: UNKNOWN**

Warrant Officer John Lowery is the last to wake from cryostasis only to find the rest of his crew all dead.

The pod opens like a flower petal, and the officer emerges from it, the first and last sign of life on the spacecraft _Testament_. Cargo: lost. Crew: 7. Deceased: 6. Cause of casualties: unknown. Authorization of orbit: unknown. Ship status/maintenance: less than functional. John’s knuckles are white, shaking as he reads the auto report, barely able to contain his grief and overwhelming apprehension. Pandemonium. It was the final word, and it gives him dread. Here he is, alone in the expanse of nothingness, orbiting a moon they had landed on over the time distance of three years. Everyone is gone. Everyone is _dead_, and in space no one can hear him cry.

_In space, no one can hear you scream. _

The striking thought that whatever had killed them is possibly still on the ship makes John frantic. It takes him five minutes to ground himself. Five minutes lost, time wasted, he realizes. He physically shakes himself, wipes the sweat of anxiety from his brow, and straightens. The first thing he must do is eat, and he gathers food from stasis, whatever salvageable. With barely an appetite, John forces it down and then goes to suit up. All others are missing, and John ruefully assumes he’ll find them on the corpses of his fallen crew.

The armory is on the second deck of the ship, a whole level up, and completely vulnerable being that there are no escape crafts nearby on that level. John swallows hard and moves forward, wishing in vain that he had the courage of his late captain. Each step he takes clanks against the floor of the ship, and he nearly flinches every time. The lights flicker dimly, and John can’t help but assume that every noise that isn’t his, every shadow that crosses behind him is imminent danger. Snapped wires hang limply from the ceiling and sparks crackle and pop threateningly. John tiptoes lightly, every step weighing heavy, and he starts to worry if he’ll ever make it. He could die. He knows this. But when and how are unknown to him. The only thing he remains aware of is that the armory is just a level away.

**FLAMETHROWER**

The sliding door closes behind him with a mechanical hiss, and John rests his back against it, gasping for breath. It’s dark, much too dark to be inside alone, but it’s where he needs to be. The wreckage of the armory is immense, weapons of containment and destruction strewn and broken about the floor in a state of still mayhem. John steps carefully around potential biohazards in search of something that will be more than enough protection. He steps lightly; whatever had caused this could still possibly in there with him, and the thought alone makes his heart pound and his temples throb.

A lone flamethrower rests by a few of the guns, piquing John’s interest. He picks it up, takes a prepared stance, and tests it out gingerly. The flames cough out, roaring to life, and John quickly turns it off, thoroughly satisfied with the results but glancing around to make sure he is still alone all the same. The hall is quiet. John ventures out, weapon in hand.

Pipes hiss with steam, and the lights continue to flicker, leaving every corridor of the ship looking ominous and sinister. It could be lurking in just the next hallway he passes ready to maim him too. But there is only one way to get downstairs to the lower bunker. It’s his only chance of survival, the engine room, a source for detonation and an escape pod to flee the ever-foreboding hell that remains. In this darkness however, it’s easy to lose one’s way, John ruefully remembers.

_Click. _

John spins around, lighting up the flamethrower as a warning and then waiting in the flickering strobes. It comes again, much like an echo this time, the clicking noise like wet nails against steel, and for a moment, John wonders if that was a growl that followed. Not necessarily the growl of a typical beast of earth; this one rattled in high and low pitches. If shivers running up and down his spine had a noise, this would be it. It combined with clicks and hisses, as though it were made of the mechanical cogs and pipes and gears that ran this craft. But John knows as his spine crawls that nothing attached to the noise that is following him is anything mechanical, much less human.

He gulps, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, backs away slowly. The flamethrower is aimed and poised prepared to find the culprit to this destruction and end this. Shadow follows him and so does the sound this time from the complete opposite of where it came from. Right behind him.

_Click. _

Whirling around, John blasts fire to threaten as well as to light his way. He bites back a scream.

Straight ahead of him is _it_, stalking the corridor, clawed hands stretched and composed. John has only seconds to see them and then the rest of the creature, tall, black body, a long structure for a head, phallic in shape. Then the lights go out as he loses flame for just a moment. John stiffens, takes a step back, prepared to use it again.

It’s seen him.

Pounding footsteps echo down the hallway in the dark getting faster and faster and he only has seconds to aim. But he’s aimed too low. The fire lights up the corridor again, but the creature is no where in front of him.

_Click. _

John hears the damning sound from above and looks up in horror, forgetting to take the flamethrower with his gaze. Outstretched like a spider, limbs wide and grappling for any area on the ceiling, the beast hisses down sharply at him, but John is too late to react. Like snakes, it’s tentacles shoot down and snap in his direction, latching on and clinging like a parasite to his suit, his head, the flamethrower, anything exposed. John screams this time and attempts to pull away, but the tentacles hold fast determined to take him with them, to certain doom.

Pandemonium.

John thrashes and kicks in the flickering lights, yelling, screaming curses as the members grab at his arms, his legs, dash his weapon out of his reach. Head snapping toward his only protection, John uses all of his strength to rid himself of these organic restraints, rolls onto his front, and struggles to crawl forward, straining, arms reaching in vain. He grimaces; the tentacles at his legs hold him back, but he pushes through, screaming as though it will help him. His heart races- he’s almost certain the creature can hear it too. It seems to snicker and sneer above him, getting closer and closer. Or maybe he is. John fights through it though, his screams giving out, his throat raw and ragged, reaching with just his fingers now, barely brushing over the body of his weapon.

Something helps him. He doesn’t know what. Perhaps it is his own perseverance while staring into the gaping, frothing mouth of hell itself. Perhaps it is God. Perhaps sheer luck. John clutches the flamethrower to his chest, closes his eyes, and pulls the trigger without hesitation. Light floods the hall once again, but John doesn’t relent until he hears the screech of rage and pain, inhuman, unnatural. Then the slimy appendages loosen, and John kicks away, scrambles to his feet, and bolts down the nearest corridor, wheezing from his own fear and exertion as he goes. The monster’s shrieks fill the halls of the ship not far behind him.

**THE WORM**

John’s breaths echo within the cavernous chamber of the engine, the hive that used to roar with warmth and life, the pitted belly of an industrial beast. Now it is dark and damp and cold, and the unfamiliar and raw stench of death floods his nostrils. John’s stomach tightens as he manages to catch his breath, and the sliding door hisses shut, not too unlike the sound of _it, _making him jolt. A sinister calm washes over the expanse of the spacious chamber, and John feels it, dreads what may be further inside.

All he has to do is look up.

There, up in the metal rafters, linked by chains in a mess of quiet chaos and gore, is his crew, what is left of them. Body parts litter the ceiling attached to the chains which still sway sullenly, dripping blood. Executive Officer Bier’s now misshapen body is in pieces, face staring down at him in silent horror. Navigator Warner hangs torn in half, his insides drooping from his torn belly, still fresh and spilling in soft piddles onto the grated floor below. The rest are barely recognizable, a death worse than most, and John surveys it all in terror. His voice is gone; all that comes is a pitiful, half-choked sob as he sinks to his knees.

The urge to vomit surges in his gut, a sensation John hates. Repulsed and terrified, he clutches his weapon and scurries towards the entrance of the escape pod, sliding against the wall, chest heaving, breath coming in and out forcefully through his nose. _Swallow it down, swallow it down, swallow it down! _

“It’s time to go,” he whispers thickly.

Inside the control room, the panels whir to life, screens light up, and digits spring across them, conducting authorization and calculating the state of the ship. Less than manageable. John ignores the warning maintenance signs, flips switches, presses buttons, waits for another answer.

APPROXIMATION OF TESTAMENT TOWARDS EARTH?

…

APPROXIMATION ARRIVAL: FATAL. CALCULATION MORE THAN 99.9%. DAMAGES TOO SEVERE TO WITHSTAND.

John folds his hands, brings them to his face with a deep, shuddered sigh.

FUNCTIONAL ESCAPE POD? STATUS?

…

AFFIRMATIVE. STATUS: ONBOARD. READY FOR ACTIVATION.

So he actually could make it out of here alive. John feels willing to take the chance, but he knows what he has to do first and the risk will be great.

TESTAMENT FUNCTIONAL FOR DETONATION?

…

AFFIRMATIVE. ALL SYSTEMS AVAILABLE AND OPERATIONAL.

John immediately goes into action and turns to the main hub panel, palms sweaty. He wastes no time however, and flips open the glass case containing the most crucial means and instructions for the destruction of the ship. Activation is ready, all systems turned down or off, and the big red button glares at him, waiting to be pressed. John sucks in a breath and does so, stiffening as soon as the alarm blares. The siren’s wails continuously ascend in pitch in rhythmic repetition, and red lights flash.

**ATTENTION. DETONATION OF TESTAMENT HAS BEEN ACTIVATED. THE SHIP WILL SELF-DESTRUCT IN T-MINUS TEN MINUTES. **

John leaps from his seat, zips up his suit, grabs the flamethrower, and makes his escape toward the pod deck. Just as his hand slams over the panel to open the door, he hears a familiar, ominous shriek. He has no time. Not to pause, turn, see it coming, dropping down like a panther from the trees before him. John has no time to act as he fumbles with the trigger of his weapon, raises it in defense. The creature seems to grin or grimace (he can’t tell which from the hollowness of its face and its lack of eyes to reveal any sense of emotion) and strikes it out of his hands. John watches it collapse and slide uselessly across the floor away from him and awaits certain fate.

The alien beast slams him against the wall by his throat viciously, knocking all breath out of him, razor sharp claws just resting under his jaw. John yells more in anger than in fear this time. His hands blindly, frantically grapple for anything, anything that could save him. In pure chaos, his fingers brush over a button of some sort, and without hesitation, John slams his fist against it, activating yet another alarm, more grating than the siren that resonates with it.

Overcome by the overstimulation of sound, the creature throws him to the side, and John takes that as his chance, racing and stumbling, limbs where he fell throbbing in pain.

Something grabs his leg, tripping him, and then the other, and he falls face first, ankles and calves tangled in a mass of tentacles. Panic hits him like a bat. John screams and kicks but finds he is being dragged away right back into the clutches of the monstrous being. In a taunting chorus of alien titters and growls, the creature lets out a high pitched screech as he struggles. He claws at the grated floor for any sort of leverage and bitterly finds none, thus winding up on his back and pinned down beneath strings of thick saliva and noxious breath. John turns his head to the side to wail, a long and loud “_FUCK!_” piercing through the empty ship, but he knows it is over as those cold, inhuman fingers prod and pry at his cheek and open mouth, forcefully turning him back to face it.

A string of sob-like “no’s” fall from John’s lips, but keeping his mouth open is his first mistake.

The beast grows increasingly more restless at its victim’s evident distress and fear, and it takes that into advantage, forcing John’s mouth open wide, gaping, and vulnerable. A pathetic whine breaks from the back of his throat, and a single tear slides from the corner of his eye as he realizes that tearing him apart is not something that the creature has in mind. Something far worse as its cavernous mouth inches closer to his, fingers holding him open, in place.

At the horrid sensation of something wet and slimy slithering past his tongue, John gives an embarrassing squeal and writhes. He has nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and can only take it as it seems to wriggle like a worm into him. From there, it slithers down his throat, distending at his neck, and then moving further down. John squeezes his eyes shut, willing this to be a nightmare, anything but the real thing, but when the alien releases him and dashes away, he feels himself slip, his vision blurs, and he lets himself fade.

**TWO PASSENGERS **

**WARNING. THE SHIP WILL SELF-DESTRUCT IN T-MINUS ONE MINUTE AND THIRTY SECONDS.**

John cracks open his eyes, dazed, bewildered, anything but alert. The sirens continue to blare in his ears as he sits up, holding his head and then he remembers. He had intended the Testament to detonate nearly ten minutes ago. Those ten minutes are almost up, and with a curse, John springs to his feet and races to the pod deck.

**WARNING. ONE MINUTE UNTIL TOTAL DETONATION. **

“Fuck!” John panics, pressing the button repeatedly to close the door to his eventual safety. Locked and almost secure, he presses buttons, flips switches, rests his hands over panels until the engine to his escape pod roars with life.

**THIRTY SECONDS UNTIL TOTAL DETONATION. **

John sucks in a breath, focuses on strapping in, accounting for oxygen, activating cryodeck, wondering why in the _goddamn hell _is it taking so _fucking _long. He’s never been one for swearing, but in his current situation, John loses his resolve, especially for the next twenty seconds before the Testament will be blown to millions of lifeless particles in the midst of frozen space.

Systems operational.

**TEN SECONDS UNTIL TOTAL DETONATION. **

John raises his hands from the control panel and emits a long, overexerted sigh of relief.

**FIVE SECONDS.**

Prays that the creature remains on the ship.

**FOUR. **

Remembers the fate of his crew.

**THREE.**

Hopes, begs that no one comes back to finish what they had barely begun.

**TWO-**

The pod shoots out from the hub of the ship, the last sight of the Testament, and John watches it burst through the endless horizon of sheer black, lighting up the whole of space in white and orange light. He closes his eyes in relief. It’s over.

Once stable, John opens stasis, calculates the time to wake when he reaches earth. Home. He removes his suit, steps into his pod, and lays back, awaiting the much needed remnants of sleep. Sleep for the next three years. The lid closes automatically, and John prepares to relax.

Something tugs at his stomach, and brow furrowed, John opens his eyes and glances down.

To his horror, his tummy distends only slightly, the noticeable shape of something wiggling in there. John gasps, tries to sit up, tries to open cryo before it’s too late, but it is done. The lid won’t budge, and he screams, long and loud where no one for billions of miles away can hear him, scratching and banging at the glass case in vain. Eventually sleep overtakes him against his will in his panic as the cryostasis activates, and he drifts off, the last dreadful thought knowing that he won’t be alone when he wakes up.


	7. John5 and the Creature from the Black Lagoon!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something in the lake... 
> 
> -Inspired by the films "Creature from the Black Lagoon" and "Shape of Water"
> 
> Song for the story: 2 Die 4- John5 and Lonesome Hunter- Timber Timbre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final and sweetest one in my opinion! I sincerely hope you enjoyed those that read. Those that know me personally I’ve been hyping this up on tumblr for the last two weeks and y’all have been so incredibly supportive and encouraging and ready to read! Love you all.   
(I apologize it took so long but I hope the wait was worth it.)
> 
> -R

John thumbs the six strings of his guitar gently, absentmindedly dipping his toes in and out of the lake. He sits at the edge of a minuscule dock on a towel with his favorite acoustic guitar in his hands and tenderly strums a tune he had just written down minutes ago. It’s a melancholy tune, reminiscing of things lost that cannot be regained, of what was hopeful but has been discarded, of something to strive for.

Or something like that. John figures it’s a beautifully perfect day to spend it in the sun and play his guitar. The tablature is nothing to him, the throes he sends the music, the changes in key, and the story; John plays with ease, a smile tugging at his lips. This song is not one for smiling, but it’s beautiful. It makes him proud.

John’s lips silently move as he plays effortlessly. His fingers pluck and strum with ease. Nothing can disturb him really, not the birds chirping or the tadpoles swimming by his toes. Nothing except the loud splash that reaches his ears. It interrupts him instantly, and he glances up and out over the expanse of the lake, searching for the perpetrator that caused it.

Nothing.

There’s no one in sight, but John furrows his eyebrows in confusion, watches the rings in the water reach his feet lazily. “Is there someone out there?” he calls. No one answers, and he looks from right to left on either side of the great body of water for something, anything, anyone. “Hello?”

John just barely misses the head that, upon realizing his eyes were on it, hastily sinks back under water with a soft plop. He starts for a moment, gets to his feet, and stares long and hard at the glistening stillness of the lake. Nothing emerges or intends to, and John decides that it’s about time he head back anyway.

It doesn’t surprise John that he wants to return to the lake. And it’s not just because he thinks he had seen a cryptid. He certainly doesn’t assume that it could be Bigfoot. Bigfoot wouldn’t be in the water anyways. And Mothman would be up in the trees, screeching down at him to give him glorious nightmares for weeks. But he does want to take another look. He had seen something out there that day that could not have been human. John brings his guitar. If he can lure whatever it was out with just his playing, he can consider himself the cryptid whisperer.

It’s almost sundown when John settles by the dock again, playing a few pleasant tunes on his towel and casually dipping his toes in the cool lake as before. He very nearly becomes lost in the music and forgets about why he is there for a good minute. The soft rustling of the reeds shakes him from his reverie, and he quickly stops, eyes flitting over the water, searching in earnest this time.

“I know you’re there,” he says aloud, “and I’m not scared of you, so if you’re somehow scared of me, you don’t need to be.”

There it is again. John notices a dark figure within the reeds looming there, watching him intently. He can’t see the eyes, but knows they are on him. Perhaps he is a little unnerved, but he reminds himself to remain calm. There has to be a reason for the constant watch.

“Did you like the song?” he calls out a little louder this time. “Is that why you’re stalking me?” John almost giggles. “I can play more if you like.”

This seems to beckon the shadow figure out from the hiding place among the reeds and brush, but it doesn’t come any closer and stays up to its neck in the water. Two glowing eyes stare intensely at him, blinking somewhat curiously. John relaxes, doesn’t see a threat, and considers the creature actually coming out from the shadows to be the affirmative to his question. He continues to play, and by the time he finishes, the creature has gone, possibly deeper down the depths of the lake.

John is determined to lure the creature out completely, and he chooses to do so by utterly ignoring it.

So when he arrives at the lake for the third time in a row, he announces, rather awkwardly, “Well, I’m here. If, you know, you want to show yourself to me. But I don’t care. I’m just going to sit here and, you know, play some guitar because-” John sticks the pick in his mouth and adjusts his seating arrangements at the dock, fumbling with his guitar’s tuning nonchalantly before continuing, “Because I like to play guitar.” Fully tuned, John mumbles under his breath in closing, “And you like to watch me.”

He begins to play.

2 Die 4. That’s what he had named the song officially. The inflections of the chords and the intricacy of the tabs leaves him lost in the notes. John closes his eyes while he plays, hums along for a bit, leans his head into the stir of the music, almost as if the stir itself begins to lull the lake to sleep.

The sun has gone down when he finishes, and when John finally tucks the pick back into its place between the strings, he realizes that something or someone is touching his leg. Two eyes stare up at him, peaking out from the water and glowing in the dimming twilight. John stares back, awestruck until his attention turns to the large, scaly hand smoothing its way past his calf and up his knee. The hand is webbed between its fingers, the palm slimy and wet like that of a fish. On impulse, John gasps and retracts his leg. This startles the creature, who in turn dashes back underwater and begins to swim away as fast as they can.

“Wait!” John cries, scrambling to his feet. “Come back! I’m sorry! You just startled me is all!”

The splashing of the water ceases for a moment, and the creature’s head emerges, hominoid in shape and features with gills that open and close gracefully against their neck and cheeks. Fusions of blues, greens, and grays swath their face, beautiful to look at in the strangest way. John can’t seem to avert his gaze. The creature gets closer, obeying his request, and John gets down on his hands and knees, staring down from the view of the pier in awe, utter disbelief. He seems to forget that his mouth is open too. Then face to face, just a breath away, the creature surfaces this time waist up in the water, looking John in the eyes with the same intensity they always had. That same hand that touched his leg reaches up ever so slowly to rub tendrils of his wavy blonde hair between their fingers. John almost blushes. Almost. He bites his lip and focuses elsewhere than those magnificent, gleaming eyes.

The water droplets that fall from their muscular body shimmer against the approaching moonlight. John swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

“So tell me,” John grins, pulling up his sunglasses despite the glare of the hot sun and adjusts his guitar in his lap, “ever heard of chicken pickin?”

The creature cocks their head to the side, curious and blinks up at John ever so adorably.

John laughs. “Let me show you then.”

He finishes with an elaborate flourish just to impress them it appears, and the creature lets out what sounds like a purr of amusement and approval. Every time he hears it, shivers run up and down John’s spine pleasantly. He sets down the guitar, noticing the way the creature’s eyes follow him with every move in wonder. John finds himself rather curious as well as he gets on his front, lazily splashing at the water below with his fingers.

“So I’ve been wondering,” he ponders aloud, “are you… you know… and you don’t have to answer if you take offense to this but… are you male or female?”

They pause for a moment and a gentle rumbling erupts from their throat almost as if they are deep in thought. Then they turn to the side and raise their hands, pressing them together is if in prayer. One of the hands subtly makes a pointing motion, and John instantly gets the hint.

“Oh,” he chuckles, and the creature makes a husky noise that comes deep from his chest, much like laughter, “male. I see.”

Suddenly he’s up close again, his face nearly against John’s, forehead to forehead, and that hand reaches up. John blinks, sobers, and waits for any touch of any kind, but instead the creature takes a moment to rub something off his nose. Sunscreen. How embarrassing.

“Jeez…” John quickly wipes his face with his towel and then turns back to him, blushing slightly. “Sorry.”

The creature makes no sound, only the motion of pressing his hand against John’s cheek tenderly. The gesture is so affectionate, so unexpected; John nearly forgets how to breathe. He leans into the touch, moves in closer, eyes zeroing in on those lips. They both meet in a kiss without a second thought, and John lets out a blissful sigh, hands roaming over the rippling muscles of his shoulders and chest. He’s warm there, and John wishes he were pressed against him, flesh to flesh, enveloping him in that warmth. When they both reluctantly break away, John wastes no time and removes his shirt, pants, everything. The creature watches with a pleased, rumbling hum and wades out further in the water.

John finds sure footing when he steps in and swims out to meet him, rushing into the creature’s open, beckoning arms eagerly. He cannot deny that he has wanted this from the moment they laid eyes on each other.

Wrapping him in a secure embrace, the creature begins to drift backwards, further and further away from the comforts of the pier. It makes John anxious, and he clutches his arms, glancing back every so often and begging him not to let him go, _please _don’t let him go! In reassurance, the creature tightens his hold on him and presses his forehead to his before sweetly kissing his nose.

The kisses continue, getting hotter and hotter the further down they go. Sweet and soft at his chest. Harder and hungrier nips at the flesh of his tummy. John’s breath hitches, feels the grip on his hips, firm and secure as he sinks beneath the surface of the water. The moment he feels his mouth envelope him, warm against the cool of the lake, John releases his first moan, wanton and whorish. He doesn’t know what to cling to. As the creature bobs his head, John’s eyes roll back, eyelashes fluttering, and at one point, almost falls backward from nearly coming too soon. The creature emerges, catches him just in time, and titters gently, amused at John’s expense.

John clings to his body, flushed and hard and notices the same from the other. He feels something prod his hole and bites his lip while gazing up at the creature, knowing exactly what it is. Before he knows it, he is lowered down by the guiding, protective direction of the creature’s large hands. It should have hurt, the stretch, the familiar sting, but there is none, almost as though he is made for him, was made to be inside of him. Unlike the familiarity of a human cock, there is no pain. John feels the full effect of it at the first thrust deep inside of him.

He gasps, and the creature in turn nuzzles his neck at the next thrust and the next and the next and the next. John’s hands splay at the creature’s chest, eyes shut, mouth parted, moaning rhythmically every time he fucks into him. Head dipped back, John relishes every open-mouthed kiss he receives at his throat. His back arches every time his creature manages to nudge against his spot, and at times he worries he’ll come too soon. John’s cock aches so much that it throbs, and he falls forward against the creature’s chest at the final thrust it takes to get him to come on impulse, untouched, blissfully.

His moans are ragged in his high, and the creature’s own cum, hot and deep within him, pleasures him even further. He hears a distinct purr, the rumbling vibrating against his body, overstimulating him, and John whimpers, blinking up, bleary eyed at his creature, who stares down at him adoringly. They kiss, bring each other back to the present, but it takes a long time before John can even manage to pull away for fear of feeling that empty. For now he wraps his arms around his creature’s rippling, scaly, sinuous body as the sun starts to set.

He’ll return to the lake once again.


	8. John5 and the Monster Under the Bed!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John just can’t seem to get a proper night’s sleep anymore due to the fact that there is something under his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooo ok so! Lots of things have been happening for a hot minute and it's only January. I'm doing my best with a ton of shtuff but I really appreciate all your patience. Thank you so much and as promised, I have more! This is the only chapter that is finished while all the other ones are in the process of being finished so stay tuned. And again, thank you for your patience, loves. Much love to you all. <3
> 
> Keep in mind that there are elements of dubious consent in this story.  
I wrote this with some inspiration from my past breakups, so some of this stuff (before the sexy bits) is pretty personal for me and was very emotional to write.  
ANYWAY enjoy. :) (can you guess who this monster is??) (Also there is minor use of the f slur)

John can’t sleep.

He just can’t seem to let himself drift off no matter how hard he tries. His mind is awake. His eyes cannot stay shut for long. With every attempt, they fling open in frustration, and John finds himself staring dumbly up at the ceiling late at night. He turns his head, checks the clock.

2:58am.

He groans.

This is just another night to dwell on absolutely nothing in silence. Just like the last night and the last and the last. It’s quiet, too quiet. Quiet enough for John’s mind to run away with him, for his ears to hear things beyond the comprehension of reality and imagination. Terrifying things, bumps in the night. It’s not that John is scared of the dark or that he needs to leave a light on before he allows himself to drift off. Drifting off is not an option at this point it seems, or hasn’t been for the past week.

Frustrated, John runs his fingers through his hair, drags them down his face, and glances out the window. Nothing stirs and despite his own breathing, all remains quiet, quiet as the dead. It’s eerie in a way; John would have loved to be fast asleep by this time. At a time of night like this, the sounds are still, the world is still, even the air is still; nothing seems awake or even alive at a moment like this. Too still, enough to allow the thoughts to come tumbling in, things John would rather not think about at this time of night. The thoughts always flutter in, thoughts of Jim and not talking to Jim and not being with Jim and Jim not fucking him and holding him. Perhaps this is the reason of his sudden insomnia. Jim had been on John’s mind since the breakup, and he had not spoken to him since.

It is painful, this amount of distance away from the one person who made his heart light with bliss, but the lack of sleep makes it even more unbearable.

John’s already cried over him enough, he reminds himself ruefully and flips over with a loud huff onto his front, willing himself desperately to just go the fuck to sleep. He looks to the side upon the wall illuminated in moonlight and sees his shadow lying there amidst the pillows that are much too soft and the blankets that are much too warm. It’s stifling, he wants to complain but his body refuses to move despite the fact that his brain is indeed wide awake and has been for quite some time.

Lazily John lifts one arm, watches the shadow mimic him, the wiggling of his fingers and waving of his arm; he almost laughs at the pictures he makes on the wall. Almost. Anything is entertaining now it seems. Jim would have told him to stop fooling around and go to sleep before wrapping his large, thick arms around his middle and tugging him back against his comforting warmth. That alone would have helped him drift off into pleasant dreams only to wake up to soft kisses and the tickling of his beard against his neck. How he misses that. He wonders if he’ll ever feel it again. The little things.

With an abrupt sigh, John drops his arm and expects the rest of the night to continue just like this.

He certainly does not expect a shadow to continue moving on the wall.

It is the shadow of a hand, but not his hand- no, definitely not his hand. More freakish than a normal human hand, elongated to terrifying measures, pulsating and stretching out to John with claws for nails. With intent to snatch him from where he lays, the shadow looms closer and closer, and John’s breath grows more shallow as his heart suddenly begins to race. It takes him only a second to collect himself, blink at the sight until he’s sitting straight up in bed and fully awake this time.

The shadow is gone and only his quivering one remains, as usual, against the illuminated space along the wall. John looks frantically around the room to make sure he actually is the only one there.

Nothing crawls out of the darkness. Nothing reaches for him from under the bed, prepared to drag him to hell. _There is no such thing as monsters under the bed, John! _

A trick in the shadows perhaps, he eventually shrugs to himself, but he may keep one eye open warily if he can even manage to shut the other. With a heavy sigh, John rolls over, forces his eyes to close, and waits for the now even more impossible notion of sleep to come. A whisper of dread remains.

“You look like _shit_.” Brian says it with a click of his tongue. “I fucking knew you weren’t getting enough sleep. Seriously, what is _with _you lately?”

John shoots him a look and sets down his case, pulling out his Ibanez and strumming studiously without any intention of making conversation. He hears Brian scoff but doesn’t even turn to acknowledge him. It’s been like this for days, and of course, John silently reminds himself to _watch it _or he’ll definitely get his cute little butt canned, but deep down he knows Brian would never. He needs him, doesn’t he? Just like Jim needed him… John mentally brushes the thought aside and continues to practice until he hears Brian’s grating, droning voice once again.

“Look I know this is hard,” Brian tries to say as gently as he can, “but if you want to get shit done, you have to _fucking _get over this breakup. And that includes if you ever want to sleep again.”

As calmly as John can manage, he says, “It’s my grief. Let me deal.”

“Bullshit it’s ‘your grief’,” Brian shoots back with more venom than intended. “You make it our grief when you bring your personal issues into the studio where we work.” He says something else under his breath, but John can hear him just as clear as the silence in the room. “If you don’t pull yourself together, we’ll just have to have a different conversation…”

John prides himself on not getting angry easily. He considers himself the pinnacle of serenity (not counting for the past week), but the last time he lashed out was on stage, almost daring to ram his head into Brian’s chest and risking getting punted right into the mob of slobbering fans. But this time, he’s prepared to attempt the same thing again if Brian says one more word.

“Back off, Brian,” John growls, voice lowering. “I _will _fight you again if I have to just like last time.”

This time John can hear the sneer.

“And we all knew who won that ‘fight’.” He sees the air quotes in his peripheral vision, and it takes everything in him to not leap from his seat.

After a long, painfully tense minute, Brian finally sighs gruffly. “I’m going to the bathroom to powder my fucking nose. Here, faggot!” Something hits John at the side of his head to which he shoots his head up to stare at Brian, eyes blazing. “You need this more than I do apparently.”

Glancing down at the floor where the small bottle had dropped, John leans down and picks it up. In the fine print is the word “melatonin”, and John almost flips off Brian as he leaves, just almost. He cannot help but glance down at the bottle once more. It’s not that he doesn’t actually appreciate the level of unseen kindness Brian gives him by offering him them rather forcefully (and he could have done without the “faggot” in there), but it’s his general attitude over all. John frowns deeply.

The aftermath of breakups comes in three stages of bad luck. Perhaps he gets in a car accident on a rainy day or the credit card company detects fraud on his account. Or he starts seeing things from his heavy lack of sleep, things that most definitely defy reality but make him double guess if it is actually all in his head or not. Needless to say, things like unexplained shadows, arid, eerily quiet nights, and things that go bump in the dark do nothing but cause more damage to his mental health and also unfortunately affect his relationships with his mates (as Brian can attest to with as much derision as he can muster).

And John cannot really go crying back to Jim about his newfound issues now can he. As much as he wants to.

Perhaps he does need this just to get one fucking good nights sleep. He decides he’ll thank Brian later when he doesn’t want to punch him in the nuts.

He does call Jim later much to his dismay and lack of pride. One thing he knows for certain is he’ll probably never be able to get the scathing image of him blubbering into the receiver incoherently at his ex boyfriend out of his brain. Has he no shame.

“I just don’t understand, Jim,” he sniffs, dashing his tears away. “I just can’t understand. Things were good. Weren’t they? I thought I made you happy. Didn’t I? Just… why, Jim?”

There’s silence on the other end for a good five seconds that feel more like five hours to John. Then he hears the heavy sigh, like Jim was waiting for him to draw breath after his embarrassing display. “John, we’ve been over this. It was nothing you ever did or didn’t do. I wish you would stop beating yourself up over what may or may not have happened. Whatever happened happened. People just fall out of love. I needed a break and realized that I couldn’t handle a long term relationship like I thought I could.”

John chokes on a sob, swallows it, and sniffs again. He knows Jim can hear it at the pause. His voice is even softer when he continues, “I know this hurts you. I know I hurt you. But please know that I still care about you. Truly I do, Five.” John knows there are remnants of a sad smile on his face as he says it, and for some reason he thinks this is it. This is his chance to remind him of his feelings. Because surely that will win him back.

“I… I love you, Four.” His voice is thick and wet from the tears, and he waits, biting his lip and wiping his nose on his shirt sleeve.

More silence. It kills him.

“Try to get some sleep, John.” The statement feels like a punch in the gut, and John’s breath catches in his throat. _Just say it. Take everything back and just say it. Please… _“I’ll talk to you tomorrow if you want but otherwise I’ll give you space.”

He doesn’t say it back.

“John? You still there?”

It takes him a moment to realize that he’d been quiet for a while. John manages to sit up though it both emotionally and physically hurts to do so and grunts the affirmative into the receiver of the phone. “Yeah. Yeah I’m still here.”

It’s Jim’s turn to feel disconcerted. “Just, uh, just try to take care of yourself, okay? And you don’t have to do it for my sake. I’m not expecting you too.”

John feels just as dejected as the day it occurred. He’s numb, barely present, barely breathing, cold and at this point he could freeze to death from the weight of ice in his heart. It depresses him, makes him feel distant now, as distant as Jim not saying “I love you back”. He can only manage another grunt in response.

“Uh huh.”

“Have a good night?”

John sucks in a breath, feels it coming again, hot tears that prick his eyes, makes his vision blur painfully so. “Yup.” It comes out short, quick, voice broken just enough so Jim can hear it, that he most definitely will not have a good night.

Typical. He hangs up.

Thank heaven, John silently gushes as the effects of the little pill succeed. He doesn’t think about practicing or his little disagreement with Brian or even Jim of all people. Instead he flops down, face first onto the bed with an exhausted grunt. His eyes droop, something he does not think he is familiar with, and blissfully, he gives in to the beckon call of long awaited sleep, an almost content expression on his face if his last thought that ran through his mind wasn’t his previous bleak conversation with a man who doesn’t love him anymore. He shakes it away, literally, and hugs his pillow in close to his face, breathing in deeply before allowing his body to give in.

It’s short-lived, or at least it seems that way.

John wakes up for what feels like ten minutes later unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do much of anything. His bones and muscles feel like cement, weighing him down further into the mattress and entangled in his sheets. It seems to course through his veins, freezing him in place, making him feel it as though he will never be able to move ever again. His face is turned to the side, so at least he can breathe but every breath feels slow and inefficient. He tries to open his mouth to scream, push out the air in his lungs, anything, and even when he thinks he has, nothing escapes, no sound, nothing. It feels like gorilla glue has sewn his mouth shut, like something out of “The Matrix” and Agent Smith has already gotten to him. Then, though vision foggy, he glances down nervously and suddenly begins to feel the sharp grip on his forearm.

His vision clears, and he sees the hand, more incorporeal than a regular human hand. As though someone dusts at his eyes, he realizes that it does not go away, pale as the light of the moon through his window, almost transparent as a membrane, so much that he can see every tendon, every vein pulsing black blood. Despite taking nearly no permanent shape, like wisps of steam or smoke from a fire, John feels the grip tighten on his forearm, as real and permanent as the kisses Jim used to give him.

Fear courses through every nerve ending in John’s body, and he tries in vain to move, his brain fighting with the rest of his body still very much fast asleep to wake up, move, do something, make this trick of the mind disappear. Finding no resolve to do so and frozen in place as though he is encased in ice, John’s eyes flit to the clock on his nightstand.

3:00am.

It seems like it has been three in the morning for a while.

John can’t take much more of this. The feeling of being restricted sends him into a panic, especially since the hand on his arm continues to tighten its grasp. Like Uma Thurman, John attempts to calm himself, ground himself back to the reality he knows, the reality that does not involve invisible forces holding him down and strange hands tugging on his limbs in attempts to drag him to hell. He feels himself breathe in deeply. That’s a start. And like Uma, he begins with his toes, wiggling them a little; at least, he thinks he is. Some nerves wake up, and then he can move his entire foot, and then the other, and suddenly he shoots up from his pillow at nothing gripping his arm and nothing holding him down. John checks the clock again.

3:01am.

Like time had somehow stopped in that moment of pure panic.

The next morning John wakes to the feeling of being handled in the middle of the night, the feeling of being touched, of being violated all over.

He glances in the mirror, the sound of running water of the shower like static in the background, and rakes his eyes over every inch of his body. He breathes through his nose in short, staggered breaths, panicked breaths. Fresh bruises in the shape of finger prints pepper over his neck, chest, and hips with a nasty discoloration, and every time he touches one he winces, hissing through his teeth. There is no explanation for this, and John’s fear that he felt last night returns at full throttle. The fear that someone or something had been in his room last night, touching him, exploring him, hurting him with delicious intent. The fear at the lingering feeling of being strangled…

That night John falls asleep thinking of Jim and wakes up in the middle of the night unable to move.

When he cracks open his eyes, he expects darkness like the pin-pricking fuzz that surrounds and fogs over his vision. Instead he can see everything, including the shadow-like figure crouching over him like a feral tiger.

In that exact moment, John wishes he could shoot up from where he lay and hide far, far away from the Thing in his bed.

For a long while, the whatever-it-is simply stares at him. At least, it seems that way, hominoid in shape without so much as a resemblance of any human facial features. No eyes leering down at him or mouth grinning maniacally, fangs and drooling saliva and all; the perfect monster under the bed. Even so, John feels the innate swell of triumph that the Thing seems to radiate, perhaps some laughter that echoes from its exterior and reverberates off the walls. Then as though a curtain is parted from the shadows, a pale hand emerges, reaches toward John decidedly. It is a stark contrast to the rest of the figure, shrouded in black like Charon on the river Styx.

John does not know if his eyes widen; he can do nothing but lay there and watch it all unfold. The creature slides a single finger down his nose, something he can just barely feel and leaves a shiver running down his spine, and thumbs at his lower lip. The last gesture is far more soft and soothing enough to make John relax into the touch, but he stays frozen in place against his will, feeling a whine build up in the back of his throat.

Then after a long period of silent acceptance that he could possibly die at any moment, John finally hears the Thing that straddles him speak.

_ **Mmm… You’re awake.** _

John’s never really heard a voice quiet like this one. It rings like what red wine would sound like, dark and rich and bitter, echoing off the walls just like the laugh prior. Genderless at first tone, John eventually realizes that this creature could possibly be male with the deep throes and undertones his voice offers. It sends even more shivers and tingles crawling up his spine straight from the small of his back and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

_ **Well… Mostly awake. ** _

More laughter. It could rattle John’s bones. Oddly enough, it seems strangely familiar.

_ **Your brain may be ready for action, but your body certainly doesn’t seem to be responding. Can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t get away… ** _

The last sentence trails off in a growl more ravenous than malevolent, and John slowly, painfully attempts to force the whine out of his mouth, which feels as though it is sewn shut. This time the creature or spirit or whatever he is clamps that same almost translucent hand down on John’s jaw and chin and grips it hard. A squeak very nearly erupts from his closed lips.

_ **It’s perfect for me this way, using humans to my advantage, and they can do nothing but sleep, frozen still by my hand. ** _

John’s eyebrows would have furrowed at this point, but all that he can communicate is the absolute fear that resonates through his chocolate brown eyes.

_ **Do you ever feel it? ** _

Finally John makes a small noise in protest.

_ **Every time you wake up, there’s remnants of my hands all over you. And you never can understand why, but every moment you think about it, you feel… just fucking filthy, don’t you?** _

There are no expressions to tell of what he is thinking, but the voice alone tells John this _thing _is taunting him. Every sentence from his mouth spills out in derision and torment; perhaps he had been watching him all those long nights since Jim had left, thought that now was his chance to consume John whole in his state of vulnerability and depression. Feeding off of him like a leech, like a fucking parasite.

The name of this demon flashes like broken neon signs in his mind. Incubus. A creature bred to sexually assault those in their sleep. Typically a male. But John never thought for a moment that they were real.

_ **Just what would your boyfriend think? ** _

There it is, like he is reading his mind.

This demon pauses at once, cocks his head as he straightens, deep in thought and then hisses out a laugh. _**You must be an unlucky one. Poor thing. Those pills must not be working, are they? Now you’ll simply have to watch I suppose. **_

“Please… don’t… h… hurt me…” It takes John a mere second to realize that he’s talking, as best as he can through the feeling of cement in his mouth. He can just barely wiggle his fingers, his toes, and the cold sensation of pins and needles jab into every extremity on his body, causing him to feel a little less numb.

The demon on top of him feels the restraint to give in and stiffens. _**Trying to fight back, huh? You can give up already. **_In an even more slippery voice, a sentence John almost dreads prods him with the realization that there is no way out of this. _**I’m not going anywhere. **_

“Then what do you want from me?” It’s hard to believe John manages to talk in the state he’s in, but it’s as though there is something lulling him back to the sweet vulnerability of sleep be it the incubus or his own exhaustion. Something tugs at his consciousness, but he pushes back, though even the demon’s voice beckons him to a subconscious more pleasurable than a wet dream.

_ **I think you know. ** _

Already those pallid hands and long fingers work at the waistband of his sweatpants, smooth his shirt up his chest, palms splayed at his tummy. Surprisingly warm but John shivers, sensing the shivers outweighing the sweet sensation of those pins and needles that help his body wake. Despite how numb he feels, the incubus’s touch is apparent, stroking over his hipbones, thumbing over his nipples until they harden against the cool air. The soft, forced whimper is the only sound he can free from his lips at this point, a noise that makes the shadowy cloud glance from his torso and cock his head as he seems to face him.

_ **Perhaps you would share more of those sweet sounds with me if I give you back your voice completely. ** _

_Please… _John doesn’t say it, he knows it, but the ‘please’ resonates through his mind at full force, more than his voice could ever offer. The incubus certainly hears it because John feels the cement leave his tongue, feels the novacane leave his lips. And then he moans, long and pressured, frantic and strained. His fear still overpowers his arousal, but the hands continue to work, eventually pulling down his sweats by the waistband just a little more. It reveals a soft patch of hair that sends the creature above him into a heated frenzy.

_ **Just looking at you like this, debauched and wanton and delectable… It’s making me hard.** _

John gulps because he can feel it literally. The incubus’s body loses his translucence and like smoke returning to the butt of a cigarette, he forms more compact, settling into a male figure, encased in a black sheen like that of a latex suit. It’s fitting. Ominously he looms over John, cocks his head again, the hands at his sides covered in black and spread like horrid claws. With a zipper for a mouth, he pulls it aside, and John sees the teeth like nails and long, thick tongue frothing with saliva.

Before he can scream, the creature already resumes the upper hand. Teeth and tongue tease him effortlessly, dangerously close to where he knows he needs it the most. Beads of blood form from where he’s bitten at his hip, and another ragged moan, pained yet pleasured, crawls from his throat. The incubus makes the taunting comment on how he tastes, but John can hardly hear him, much too far gone. The pins and needles prick at the back of his neck now where the blood has left him, and his breaths become shallow, only a whimper and whine escaping when he’s bitten again.

_ **Look at how easy you are. Perhaps I’ll let you move just to see if you struggle. ** _

Like a snap of the fingers, John knows without a doubt now that his body will obey his brain. The pins and needles stop jabbing and prodding his skin instantly like a cooling effect, and he shudders. Rather than recoil, John steels himself to actually reach out his hands and touch the creature. Seconds after they gloss over the sleek, black body, impossibly strong hands grip his own by the wrists and hold them high over his head.

_ **That’s it. There’s only me now. Let me occupy those thoughts, pretty thing. ** _

John aches when he says it. His brain strains to think of what he could possibly be talking about, but all notions of fear and even that one person- or was it even a person- just the idea of him slips from his mind with the slightest flick of the demon’s tongue until he or they or something was nothing but a speck in the back recesses of his brain. All he knows is the sweet, delicious ache given when this incubus curls his tongue around his hips, creeps up towards his chest, slithers down his throat.

John chokes involuntarily and bucks up his hips in a frantic arch, straining for air and finding only more restrictions when his captor holds his legs down with the rest of his strange body. When they break away from the tainted kiss, a thick strand of saliva breaks and runs down John’s chin. It makes him feel filthy, but the ache in his groin outweighs his hesitation.

_ **You’re still far too unbroken, and I’d rather break you apart piece by piece in so many different ways; however, it seems like you truly want this. ** _

Latex hands snatch at his sweatpants and rip them away, throwing them somewhere across the room. John helplessly glances down, brows furrowed desperately, and lets out a small whine, something that very nearly resembles a ‘please’. With a rumbling hum, the incubus bends down in a crawl and laves his tongue down and up between his legs. It draws out a ragged, sob-like moan from his wet lips, throws his head back as if he is nothing more than a rag doll to play with, makes him writhe and squirm like convulsions of an exorcism. Pleasure like that of a small, blissful death.

The first stretch makes John’s chest expand and contract sharply. Feels like the head, large enough and painful enough for John to sit up and tense if it wasn’t for the hand holding him down by his wrists. The other hand sort of cradles the small of his back at first, like the gentle, guiding hand of a lover until nails like claws dig into his hip and pull him forward. John sucks in a short breath at the forceful and final entry, cries out, and the creature moans deeply. There was never any inclination that he knew he would be fucked by something he never thought existed; however, the twitch John’s cock gives tells him to accept it. In the back of his mind, in the darkest corner of his psyche, the part he never ventures for fear of what may come out the other side, John decides he needs this.

The incubus’s thrusts inside him are untamed, rhythmic, and sharp that send loud yelps and spasms out of John he can hardly bear to contain. It seems endless. John lays there feeling his body move to the will of this demon, back and forth on his bed, hair mussed and wild, hands scrabbling for the headboard above him. Each jab inside him goes deeper and deeper, nudging the spot that draws a pained, whorish moan out of him. John’s back arches beautifully, drawing him in eagerly and earning an appreciative growl from the creature above him. He feels his tongue, which laves its way up from his chest to his neck, wet and hot and almost pulsing like the member inside him. John raggedly moans, attempts to push himself onto him as much as he can go until he feels like he is being ripped apart. It aches so much, heavy and throbbing and so desperate for release, John feels as though he could cry if he doesn’t come soon.

The incubus hisses out a husky laugh. _**Needy little slut. **_John keens. _**Impatient, are we? **_Slamming his hand, hot as the inside of John’s thigh, over his mouth, he snarls, _**Don’t want to wake anyone up, do we?**_

The final thrust into him has John seeing stars, and he comes, spilling all over himself in a filthy display of wanton need. The sounds that want to come out stay caught in his throat, and John spends the next few torturous seconds huffing out short, heated breaths while he twitches with each wave of pleasure. The demon only watches, hungrily, and his own fingers at his hips seem to twitch as well with the urge to touch him. Manhandle him.

_ **Like defiling an angel… You’re so beautiful when you come. ** _

John gulps down air, lets out a choking noise when the incubus pulls out, and whimpers at the regrettably empty sensation. The tongue returns and cleans him just enough to tease him in his high. John squirms as it passes over his nipples, down to his naval, laps up the last drop at his head. It almost hurts.

_**Sweet. You taste so… **_The incubus pauses, searching for the right word, and cocks his head as if deep in thought. _**Innocent. Just like an angel. **_

Bewildered and debauched, John manages to right himself, but the tongue flicking at his sore cock hinders him from doing much else except moan. He flops back down against the pillows and parts his lips to protest. He can’t take anymore. His hands grapple downwards, find the head and shoulders nestled between his thighs.

It seems like a mask; John marvels if he assumes correctly and gives it a tug. Underneath skin like latex, he feels hair underneath, soft, familiar, and like the drawing of a curtain he yanks it away, daring to look down.

Two vivid blue eyes stare up at him deviously, but John cannot make out much of the face.

_ **It’s time to wake up, John. ** _

“You’re awfully chipper this morning,” Brian somewhat growls behind one of Stephen’s keyboards.

John ignores the comment but smiles shyly to himself. He does feel better, much better in fact. Like he’s slept for hundreds of years, all refreshed and renewed. Perhaps he had come in with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face, but that is besides the point. Deep down John assumes he shouldn’t be feeling this way, especially after the series of rather interesting events that occurred last night. If it had been an incubus, wouldn’t he have robbed him of his sleep? Instead, John feels like he could shred for eight hours with no breaks in between. Take that, Brian.

His frontman makes a remark under his breath of not knowing what has gotten into him and stalks out of the room. Merely shrugging it off, John turns his attention to his Ibanez and plugs it in. The grating thunder and squeak starts up, and John sits, crossing his legs and preparing to play. A smooth hand on his shoulder brings his practice to a brief halt.

“You look better,” Tim murmurs with an easy smile as he passes. With his back to him as he exits the room, he says a little louder, “Like you had a fun night.”

John blinks, and the grip on his guitar loosens. He can’t have meant anything specific by that. There’s no way…

Suddenly Tim turns, glances over his shoulder at John, and their eyes meet. John watches the grin widen, and then he sees the teeth. Black are his eyes as he brings a finger to his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated!!! Thank you thank you! xoxo


	9. John5 and the Terrible Bite! Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John does not know whether he fears this creature or wants him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up because this is going to take a dark turn. 
> 
> Once again I apologize for how slow these are coming out, but thank you so much for bearing with me and staying supportive. It means a ton. <3

_Trent’s lips taste like honey as he kisses him, and John opens his mouth to let him in just so his tongue can relish it. This is more than passion and intimacy. This is lust, carnal lust, perhaps with deeper, more violent intentions. The hand resting on John’s throat presses down gingerly while the other hand wraps around him and slides down to the small of his back, pulling him closer until not even air could come between them. A soft grunt falls from John’s mouth, but Trent captures it and swallows it down with another kiss even more ravenous than the last. _

_John feels the hands in his hair this time, yanking his head back. He can only choke out at gasp, eyes squeezed shut when Trent ever so softly grazes his throat with his fangs. The latter hears the small whimper. Of fear or arousal or both, he is not sure. All he can be sure of is how silky John’s hair is, how delectably sweet he smells, and how beautiful the sound of his blood rushing through his veins is. Like music to his ears. The tones and inflections increase as soon as Trent’s hand slides down John’s pants. _

His name is Trent not Michael, he had told him. Michael is more often than not his alias. Of course, vampires need aliases. How does one exactly explain the consistent and unchanging presence of an immortal gothic beast over the series of many, many years. He’s good at hiding.

“Is it true about the sun?” John had asked him. “Does it mean you don’t go outside as much anymore during the daytime?”

Myth to an extent, Trent had tried to explain. He is a hunter and follows the scent of blood wherever he goes. The sun only weakens this ability and therefore, weakens him, makes him more hungry, makes him sick, doesn’t really burn him “alive”. So he chooses to avoid it at all costs.

“Stakes? Crucifixes? Holy water?”

Trent had barked out a laugh and pressed a quick kiss to John’s forehead. “Let’s just say my relationship with an almighty being up there is rather tense. But I don’t ‘hiss at the sight of holy relics’, if that’s what you’re wondering.” It had been John’s turn to laugh.

And in regards to the garlic myth, Trent doesn’t really enjoy any food for humans anymore. Not because it revolts him but because he cannot taste anything anymore. Sad, John had murmured into his shoulder, but Trent had merely shrugged. Then they had fucked and showered until the sun came up.

John sits at his side of the booth, idly sipping his coke with a rather faraway expression enough to cause some concern among the rabble. In his reverie, he hardly notices the elbow nudging him, the foggy voices beckoning him back to the present. It takes Brian giving his hair a sharp tug to draw him out of it like a sting from a wasp.

John’s face contorts into anger as his head wrenches to the side suddenly. “Ow!” he yelps. “Jeez Louise, Brian, give a guy some warning before you pull a move like that one. This isn’t the bedroom, okay?”

He hears a low chuckle from his assailant and rolls his eyes dramatically. “Gave you plenty of warnings, babe,” Brian chirps, ruffling his hair a little. “You were really out of it. What’s going on? Something on your mind?”

John sobers just to smile to himself, but Brian catches it. “Someone,” he corrects him.

“Oh?” Brian draws out the ‘oh’ with playful interest and leans forward. He bats his eyelashes at him flirtatiously and grins. “Someone I know?”

“I don’t think anyone knows him.”

“Just a flirt and fuck kind of guy? Is he a dominant like me?”

John has to pause to think of an answer to that one. “I wouldn’t really consider him one, but I don’t know if I consider him submissive either. He gives and takes if you catch my drift.”

“Do I need to be jealous?”

John knows he’s only joking, but he reassures him either way. “No, no, no! And I’m not putting off tonight if that’s what you’re wondering. We just… tend to share.”

Brian chuckles again, grabbing John’s hand, stroking it with his thumb. “Just fucking with you, angel. Do you think he’ll share with me?”

John feels mesmerized by the tender caress of just that finger alone. He does miss the times he’s had with Brian. There’s something special and irreplaceable about the presence of a dom and a top in his life. And he’s never felt nervous engaging in his other interests with Brian, his other sexual pursuits. With other people. Brian and him have an understanding. Right from the start. With Trent it is different. He seems possessive, just like any creature like him he’s read about would be, and not just for his blood. Trent is gentle with him, almost seems obsessed with him especially after he had begged him to stay the night prior. In the presence of Brian, an equally calming and intimidating dominant, John almost feels worried for him. Like he’ll lose his shit, he’s not entirely sure, but it is in the range of possibilities of how he would react.

“I don’t know if you could handle him,” he says simply despite the flood of thoughts.

Brian snorts rudely, both eyebrows raised as he takes a drink. “Bullshit. Maybe you don’t know me that well.” The last comment makes John shiver. Then Brian points to the bandage on his neck that he had quite forgotten about. “Did _he _do that to you?”

Bewildered, John reaches up to check and immediately remembers why he can’t let Brian meet his vampire. “N-no,” he stammers, “it’s nothing.”

Brian curses throatily above him, which prompts a needy moan out of John with every nudge that’s sure to send him over the edge. He’s much larger than any other man he has been with; John, in that moment, remembers just how much he missed him. It is as though no time had passed since they had been apart. Sliding into John is smooth and effortless, and Brian groans long, loud, and low every time he clenches around him. It’s obscene and it’s beautiful. He watches John’s back arch with every thrust he gives, and when he finally spills inside of him, John comes, untouched, because he’s just that good. Just that fucking good.

They speak no more of Trent that night, shower, and then John dresses to leave, promising with a kiss that they would do this again just like they had done before and just like they had done before.

It’s frigid and raw when John ventures downtown towards his own apartment. He sees his breath and wishes he could just walk faster; it’s not safe to walk alone on nights like this. More than that, he just wants to get warm, snuggle by the heater under millions of blankets, watching _House of 1000 Corpses_, probably texting Brian. If he had any other method of communication other than simply showing up at his place though, he’d probably text Trent first.

“You never told me you were seeing other people.”

The voice sounds like jagged ice along a gutter, and John nearly jumps out of his skin until he recognizes the familiar creature of the fucking night. Like some sort of B-movie horror flick from the eighties, Trent emerges from the shadows with an unreadable expression on his pale face and cocks his head to the side, hands shoved deep into his pockets. At first, John can’t figure out what to say to that, doesn’t know how to react to his sudden presence, and simply gapes at him. Trent waits as patiently as he can for an answer though, and if those eyes, dark like a forest after rain, could cut through bone, John would be shattered to millions of hapless little pieces.

“Trent,” John finally murmurs after wetting his lips against the frosty air. “What are you doing here?”

Trent closes his eyes for a brief moment and almost looks disappointed. “I believe I asked you a question first.”

Fidgeting restlessly in his thick overcoat and skin tight pants, John starts to get irritated a bit too easily. He never likes the blame game. “You didn’t ask,” he states sharply. “You made a statement. There’s a difference.”

This time, Trent starts to look impatient. “Is there a reason?”

“Must have slipped my mind,” John mumbles and turns his head to the side to study the cobblestone street beneath his feet. The butterflies that normally start up when he’s with him begin to flutter about in his stomach in a way that makes him feel sick. A sense of dread. John tries in vain to ignore it, but there are those two fingers tipping his head back to look Trent in the face; he hardly heard him approach and that only disturbed him more. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“I just don’t like being led on.”

Biting down hard on his lower lip to stop the trembling, John attempts to avert his gaze but all efforts seem regrettably futile.

“All I need is a simple answer. Am I just wasting my time here?”

The smallest, most minuscule part of John wants, longs to say yes. Yes, you are. How would this even work in the long run? And it would pain him to do so, because as menacingly calm as Trent looks right now, calm and calculating as a serial killer, John doesn’t want to cut the cord that they somehow managed to tie together. Those two blissful nights they had spent together were more than anything John had ever hoped for. He is drawn to him, and he knows it. They both know it.

“No! No you’re not,” John hears himself saying before smashing his lips to Trent’s and desperately trying to ignore the feeling of him not reciprocating the action. “I love being near you.” He gives him another kiss and then another until he backs off uncertainly, observing the same look of disappointment and distrust permanently etched in those forest green eyes. “I promise…”

It takes a moment for his expression to soften. Beneath John’s small hands, his shoulders relax, and he unclenches his jaw, glancing at John tenderly with just the glimpse of an accepting smile. “Be with me tonight,” Trent murmurs, wrapping his arms tighter around him. It’s almost stifling, and John’s heart pounds at their closeness, wonders what would happen if he refuses.

He can only nod.

“If I knew what heaven were like, I’d say it was your mouth,” Trent breathes, chest heaving and contracting with each stuttering breath. John only hums below, and the wet sounds he makes overpower the sound, enough to make Trent come on the spot.

With a wet, loud pop, John pulls away to slick up two fingers, eyelashes fluttering up at Trent ever so innocently. “You look so beautiful just like that.” John’s cheeks redden, but the praise only arouses him further and persuades him to reach up between Trent’s legs, parting his cheeks and sliding those fingers in. Letting out a small, strangled noise, Trent’s eyelids flutter shut and his hands blindly grapple at the back of John’s head, pushing him down again. “_Fuck_…” he rasps in a husky voice. “Just like that. Please…”

Perhaps it’s the ‘please’ that keeps John going, and he hums appreciatively around Trent, trying to slide his lips all the way down. It has been a while since he had taken the upper hand, and John doesn’t dislike it, not one bit, especially if a twitchy, mewling vampire is what he receives. With his free hand, John caresses his lower back, intending to remain as soothing as possible, and the satisfied moan in between Trent’s begging tells him he’s doing everything right. For a moment, he forgets the possessiveness. For a moment, all he can do is taste Trent, wishing he could at least get himself off, hump the bed a little since his hands are otherwise occupied.

Deciding to take the upper hand completely, John stops everything, tells Trent breathlessly to get on his back, to which Trent flops down with a pleased and eager grunt. It gives John a moment, hovering over him, to take him in in all his erotic beauty and lustful visage. His hair is soft between his fingers, his eyes watching him and his hands especially before catching one in his own and kissing the palm. It should have been sweet, but John gulps as those fangs ever so slightly graze over his skin beneath the heated stare Trent offers him. As it cools, the expression seems to ask, “May I?”

Only the slightest nod from John is enough for Trent to reach up for what he wants the most. John can hardly swallow the whimper that comes as soon as he feels it, Trent gulping down his blood in large swallows, lips caressing his skin lovingly. Dangerously.

John feels sick when they finish together, but somehow he can’t bring himself to leave. To leave him. It’s just not under his radar. It’s not in his capabilities to shut the door behind someone who makes him feel so good. If this is some sort of vampiric spell Trent has him under, John’s not entirely certain he cares. He almost can’t recall the moments he spent with Brian just a little over an hour ago. Just a thin string away from forgetting his name altogether.

Fingers gently tuck his hair behind his ear. Warmth against the cold.

“Did I take too much?”

John wants to lie, wants to tell him he’ll be fine, just fine, and then he can just leave. But he can’t bring himself to move, that or his body will not allow him to. Every point of his limbs feels weighed down by cinderblocks, and if he tries to roll over, an overwhelming sense of dizziness and nausea washes over him with no intention of leaving. All he can do in response is moan and whimper pathetically. The next time Trent’s hand is in his hair, it almost seems patronizing, taunting, and he dreads the chillingly soft laugh that follows.

“I suppose I did.” The hand grips his hair and with a harsh yank, pulls his head up. “Any more and you’d be dead.”

John’s eyelids flutter weakly, and his mouth hangs open in a silent whine. Trent is everywhere before him, blurry and spinning. John feels bile build up in his mouth.

“You didn’t have to lead me on, you know.” Trent’s steely grip on his jaw is too tight. “And now look what you made me do. I wasn’t planning on falling in love any time soon.” He stops before he goes any further, and his hand slides down, wraps around John’s throat, uses his grasp to pull him up to his knees. “Call it love or obsession, I don’t care. If you had any real apprehension, you wouldn’t have come, would you? It’s dangerous to be with me, but somehow that didn’t stop you. And now you know that this…” Lightly, he strokes the open wounds at the side of John’s neck. “…is the only way for us to be together.”

Confusion wafts over John with dread following close behind, wondering what he could possibly mean by “the only way”.

“Really, John.” Trent clicks his tongue, shakes his head. “As if I would ever share what’s mine.”

The echoing rush of a loud pop washes over John’s ears like a cold wave into a lukewarm bath. Everything goes dark.

When John comes to, he tries to scream.

He expects pain, almost wishes for it, but a surging sense of utter numb, cold as ice freezes his joints, his limbs, his circulation and holds him there, hindering him from any feeling, that familiar flow of warmth, of life. It’s gone, and John realizes it like a harsh slap to the face.

He can’t scream. His throat rubs like sandpaper every time he attempts to make a single sound. All he can manage is, “Am I dead?” It sounds more like a croak. Less human if anything.

“Not exactly.”

John longs for the assurance of death as soon as he hears that voice. “Trent… What… did you…?”

“What I could.”

There it is, that hand in his hair, softer now, less imposing. He’s gotten everything he’s wanted now. John struggles but finds himself tied to the headboard. Stains of what he assumes are his blood speckle and pool over the sheets. The color is prominent, but the _smell _keeps him at beck and call, like strangulation, enough to tame him, enough to keep him conscious. Ruefully, John realizes just how dry he is, like that of a withered leaf along the side of the road, nothing pumping in his veins, all closed up and taut. He could snap in two, brittle enough to crumble away into dust if Trent so much as dashed him against the wall. He almost wishes he would. The hunger however, keeps him occupied like a slave trained.

“Why?” he sobs out. His pain is meaningless, he knows that, but just like a sociopath, Trent hides his disregard for John’s agony to keep him bended over backwards, only losing his resolve and his guise the moment he feels him slipping from his fingers.

“Because,” Trent pipes up, “if I had killed you, I know I would have missed you.” John doesn’t know whether he could vomit at the back of Trent’s hand caressing his cheek or lean into the touch. The smallest part of him that’s still human claws at the bars, knows that one wrong move and he would be dead, but even at his mercy, John wants Trent, needs him, feels more drawn to him in his vulnerability than ever before.

“Hungry?”

Weakly, John lifts his head, ready to cry at the tender pair of eyes, vibrant and green, staring back at him expectantly. Protective. Just as he remembers. Before he can respond, Trent turns on his heel and walks out. It leaves John pondering over what exactly Trent has to give him, and as he starts to think a little harder, he starts to feel sick.

When he returns, John hardly holds back the raspy, ragged remnants of a scream. His voice is hoarse as he cries, and he tastes bile but none comes up. Trent throws a bound and gagged Brian on the bed carelessly and resumes an ugly snarl. “Tears are worthless,” he sneers, mouth grim. “You do what you must to survive. And this fucking clown…” Taking Brian’s hair in his fist and yanking his head back, he growls, “I would’ve eaten him myself since he seemed so set on _eating _me.” Brian’s eyes are mere slits, face scrunched in pain and wet with tears. John doesn’t think he’s ever seen him cry.

“But I know you need him more than I do.”

“Please…” John whimpers as soon as he realizes what Trent demands he do. “Please, not him. Not Brian. Pick anyone else… I…”

“_Anyone_?” Trent sounds incredulous, and he barks out a laugh. “You see? That’s how I know this was always meant to be. You’re already a killer. No, no, no don’t shake your head at me. You know it. Right to the very core of your marrow, you know it. You’re a killer, just like me, and you must do the only thing you can to persist.” Leaning in close, Trent’s lips gently brush against his quivering lips. “Persist until we’re the only two left.”

Brian grunts beneath him, drawing his attention away, and that same grim expression crosses over his face once more. The bleak calm that was dissipates, and John watches with baited breath. Trent gets Brian to his knees, gives his hair another yank to shut him up, and then advances on John.

“What’ll it be?” It sounds more like a statement than a question, a command rather than a request. “I’d rather not gorge on two more bodies tonight. Do you think me a glutton? Make your choice.”

The hunger rages in him now, thawing the ice, going from cold to hot as though he is sweating. Death warmed over. He can hardly hear his voice of reason, the part that is still human, the part of him that says he should be dead and nothing more. It fades into the static behind the forefront of his ravenous intentions, distorted, fuzzy, like a television screen losing all connection. And there is Brian, neck exposed, trembling. John vividly sees his pulse pump and throb wildly, hears him swallow thickly. He can _smell _him. His cologne, even his emotions; fear like the raw stench of iron and panic like warm contents of his stomach. It disgusts John so much to think how the scent allures him, how delicious it is.

Brian’s skin is smooth beneath his tongue, stutters when he touches him, and he begins to beg against the gag. John ignores it. He grazes his teeth against his flesh, smells bourbon and chocolate and instantly becomes overwhelmed with intense hunger he knows now that he can’t control. He grazes over a vein, senses on overdrive.

John doesn’t know when he sank in. All he remembers is the rush of something sweet, like the nectar of the gods, flooding into his mouth, sliding down his throat at a rapid pace. Bourbon and chocolate exactly, and all John knows is the need to get drunk off of it, a feeling unfamiliar to him. Brian struggles wildly beneath his mouth, thrashes and wails incoherently, but Trent holds him securely, moaning when John moans, giving little sighs while he watches. It’s voyeuristic almost. Obscene. He stares at John’s hands forming into fists, his arms taut and straining against his bonds, watches his strength return. And with every gulp that reaches his ears, every groan, Trent feels himself get _hard_.

There comes a point when Brian stops moving altogether, goes limp and quiet, and John pulls away, mouth bloody, beads of it dribbling down his chin. Even like this, he still is the angel that seduced him those nights ago, begged him to taint him, clip his wings and drag him down with him.

Trent drops the lifeless corpse to the floor in a heap and saunters to John. The latter is frozen in a state of both shock and acceptance, eyes glazed in mindless lust. He hardly feels the kiss pressed to his temple but closes his eyes just to catch it, savor it, remember it.

“We’ll be together forever, won’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be sure to smash that kudos button and leave a comment if you liked it! Recommend to someone who you think would also enjoy if you want. Much love. <3


	10. John5 and the Beast! Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Jim deal with the aftermath of their decisions and John learns how to tame his beast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear god it is exactly 12:12 AM and now I can finally post this and then get ready for class tomorrow. It took a lot longer than I thought but it was time well spent and honestly one of my favorite chapters to write! Be prepared for feels, fluff, smut, and all that good shit. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The faint sound of rumbling, like distant thunder, startles John awake, and he shoots up instantaneously only to breathe a heavy sigh of relief. He’s still in bed, still in his room, still in his house, still safe, not dead. John waits until the pounding of his head and his chest subside and then goes back down slowly, rolling over and ready to return to the blissful dreams of sleep. He sees the sleeping form next to him, the rumbling he had heard, mere snores from the larger man. Human now. Scenes of the events from last night flash forward in his mind, and he remembers.

Jim is a werewolf. John’s boyfriend is a werewolf.

He remembers being attacked last night, remembers bringing his beastly partner back to the house in the dead of night, remembers being healed…

John reddens at what had happened afterwards and steals a side glance Jim’s way. As the anxiety fills to the brim, John worries at what Jim would say when he finds out, how he would react when he realizes he could have killed his partner, how John willingly stepped into harm’s way just to get some that night. In the here and now, it sounds ridiculous, completely and utterly foolish to assume that being knotted by his very own werewolf boyfriend would be the same as the silicone knot Jim uses on him occasionally. John’s blush deepens at the thought. It’s too early.

Getting up is hard to do, considering the dull ache throbs every time he shifts or moves even just a little. John hisses through his teeth when he stands and involuntarily reaches behind to grab his buttocks while he stretches. Jeez Louise, pretty darn lucky, he thinks to himself before eyeing the sleeping Jim on his bed one last time. Donning one of his boyfriend’s shirts, John ventures to the kitchen in search of sustenance. Sex like that will put up an appetite, he supposes with a small chuckle, eyes scanning the fridge. He could make some quinoa cakes, and Jim will simply have to deal with it considering the beating John endured-

“Jesus, John! What the fuck happened?”

Hearing Jim sound so distressed and utterly confused startles John with a jolt through his whole body. He shuts the fridge and frowns as he returns to his room. It’s not a tone he is familiar with or cares to be. “What is it, babe?” He can hardly believe how soft and even his voice can sound sometimes. “Oh…”

_Oh. _

Somehow he had managed to ignore the dilapidated mess that is his room, and he would have laughed had it not been for those thick furrowed eyebrows and deep-set, concerned frown on his boyfriend’s face. Jim is more than beside himself. He’s pacing, hands in his hair, casting panicked eyes this way and that.

“What happ- Did I- Fuck!” Jim’s eyes rest on John finally, and the panic only worsens. “John, please. What did I do?”

John hates seeing him this way, hands to his head, eyes wandering, worrying. He quickly stands on his tiptoes and plants a soft kiss to his cheek. It seems to settle him if only for a little bit. He smiles slightly. Jim’s growing a beard, and with the current events, John thinks a beard would suit him. He smoothes it with his thumb, catches a tear. His smile falters. Jim’s expression is broken and despondent.

“You know,” he says softly. It’s the softest, most vulnerable John has ever heard from him, and he decides he does not like it. He nods and swallows down a less than carefully thought out reply that was supposed to be his attempt at soothing him. Jim continues, “I hurt you.” He looks disgusted with himself, and John quickly intervenes.

“You did heal me last night!” he manages, keeping him close to assure him. “I don’t know how you did but you did.” Jim is not nearly as convinced as John would like him to be, so he wraps him in a tight hug until he feels his muscles relax and he reciprocates. “I promise I’m okay. Really. Just calm down for a second.”

Jim’s large hand runs through John’s hair as he holds him. “We still have to talk about what happened last night.” He holds him back at arms length, looks him up and down, frowns when he sees what he’s wearing. “Did we…?”

Guilt flashes through John’s eyes when he looks away, biting his lower lip. He hears Jim sigh above him.

“How the fuck.”

It’s more of a statement than a question, and Jim’s voice sounds dry and exhausted. John gets more defensive without thinking as he attempts to explain. Of course he knows how this would effect him, but he can’t help but ask _why_. He is all right, isn’t he? “I could do it!” he says, though deep down he cannot help but think how ridiculous he sounds. “This doesn’t bother me, Jim. And… well… I suppose I was curious.”

So perhaps, that isn’t something he should have said.

“Curious? You were curious?” Jim sounds more than ballistic. “Fuck, John! You could have gotten yourself hurt! I could have hurt you! I-” He stops, face hardening further, and John freezes, wondering just how angry he’s made him. He doesn’t really expect what comes out of his mouth next. “Take that off.”

“Wha- No.” John stares in disbelief and smacks Jim’s hand away when he reaches for the hem of his shirt. He persists, which starts to irritate John now. “What the heck has gotten into you? Jim!”

“We can play the blame game later,” the latter announces gruffly, succeeding (without much effort at all really) in taking his shirt off of his boyfriend, who is angrier than him and a wet hen at this point. He turns him around, eyes him from ass to back to neck, lifts his arms, gets down on his knees to check his legs. Normally, being manhandled turns John on, but this is pushing it. “I need to make sure I didn’t bite you anywhere,” he hears Jim say. “No scars, open wounds, nothing. This is serious, John!”

John’s face flushes considerably at the mention of being bitten, and he remembers all too well the painfully pleasurable sensation of Jim’s teeth sinking into his shoulder when he had mounted him. He doesn’t say this to Jim though. Instead he mumbles, “Would it matter if you did?”

“I can’t believe you’d even ask me that,” Jim gripes and remains silent as he continues to search him. It’s deafening. The heat of his eyes over John’s body are enough to burn holes right through him, he thinks, and he shudders as soon as he hears the low curse from above him. “I fucking knew it.” John feels gentle yet hesitant fingers brush over his shoulder and then Jim’s no longer standing behind him. Instead he sits at the edge of the bed, face in his hands, silent, uncharacteristically distant. Curious, John makes his way to the mirror in the bathroom and turns. Indented scars in the shape of large bite marks array his shoulder and upset the artwork of his tattoos, all in the final stage of healing. How that’s possible, John doesn’t know, but at this point anything is possible for him. It’s not necessarily what worries him the most.

Emerging from the bathroom moments later, John gingerly puts Jim’s shirt on again and tentatively approaches him on the bed. He can hardly look at him, worried about what his answer will be.

“Does this… Does this mean I’ll turn too?” he asks in a soft voice.

Jim hears the evident concern in his boyfriend’s voice, looks up, and softly smiles in assurance. He pats the space on the bed next to him, but even John knows that this conversation won’t be easy. The bed is cushy for his sore ass, but even then he can’t get comfortable. Blindly he reaches for Jim’s hand and settles with resting his head against his shoulder. He’s warm, human through and through for now, a different kind of warmth to what his fur gave him.

“I don’t ever want to willingly hurt you again.”

John quickly lifts his head and protests, “But you didn’t willingly hurt me! I know you would never do so intentionally-” The hand raised keeps him from babbling on any further, and John automatically closes his mouth and slumps back into him again, knowing he won’t win this fight.

“I know,” Jim says. “The me you see right now would never wish to cause you harm. But the me last night…” He squeezes his hand so tight, John knows he could break it. It would just take one snap. This is fear. He never wants to see it in him ever again. “The me last night was different. I wasn’t me. That thing tried to kill you just hours ago, I know it.” John does not deny it, and a frown remains permanently etched across his face as he buries his face deeper into Jim’s chest and shoulder. “And I know you’ll see me that way again. I don’t know what I would do if I woke up one morning and realized I had gone too far, found out that I’d…” He stops himself quickly before finishing that sentence, and John takes that as his chance to calmly but sincerely interject.

“And I _know _that that would _never _happen.” John raises his head this time, looks Jim directly in the eyes, brings his hands to cup his face. The kiss is quick and hesitant, but Jim reciprocates, smiling somewhat sadly when he pulls away. He looks like he’s about to argue, but John isn’t finished. “I know that because _I _was able to calm you down just in time. I was able to… to…” He searches for the right word, reddening slightly when the word he hardly wishes to use screams in his mind. “…_tame _you! Even if this happened again, I have no doubt that I could do it once more, even quicker than the last time. Reduce damage. I don’t know…” Now he’s worried he’s run out of things to support in his defense. Perhaps it’s all he can say for now, but he’s not about to let Jim just win. “You found out that you bit me last night,” he starts, a little softer, the worry in his voice returning.

This time Jim resumes a hardened, brooding, even angry expression on his face. For a moment, John thinks his anger is directed at him, but then shame washes over his face, and he quickly claims his hand in his for comfort. He knows.

“I didn’t turn you,” Jim begins slowly, “so you don’t have to worry about that anymore.” He still continues to look away. “But I did something without your consent, and there’s no way to undo it.”

This unnerves John finally. He lets go of Jim’s hand and turns to face him, eyes expectant and waiting. “Tell me,” he says simply. “Just tell me. I’m still alive and breathing, so tell me and I will do my best to understand.”

Huffing out a breath, Jim makes eye contact and does not look away this time. “I’ve sired you.”

John doesn’t understand yet. “Sired me? What does that mean?”

“It means that I own you now, that you’re mine completely.” Jim shifts restlessly but continues, “That bite I gave you was enough to turn you but by healing you, it only marked you. The mark is permanent however, because it ties you to me, keeps you under my protection yes, but binds you fully under my control. It is something meant only for a pair to agree on to the fullest extent, and I violated that last night.” Even with it being said, Jim sighs heavily, runs a hand through his hair, knows that he has to elaborate. “Essentially this means that you are my omega now. You do everything I tell you, even when you don’t want to.”

John finds the carpeted floor much more interesting than anything at this point. A million thoughts rush through his brain, the meaning of an “omega” being one of them and also wondering if this means that Jim is the alpha in the relationship. Even without this so-called “siring”, John wouldn’t have had to guess which one was the top or bottom, dominant or submissive in this relationship. Nevertheless, he shakes his head out of his thoughts and stares at Jim intensely.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit dramatic? Regardless of being sired to you, I already do what you tell me and I never feel unsafe in doing so. You know I’ll do anything for you.” John leans in for a kiss but is taken aback when Jim abruptly pulls away.

“Okay…” he hears him murmur under his breath. “Okay. Okay, fine. Get up.”

John stands.

“Go to the window.”

He does so without pause.

“Open it.”

John is bewildered. Everything is happening too fast for him to catch up, seems like he’s lost his free will. “Jim…”

“Now throw yourself out of it.”

John’s blood rushes in his ears as he watches his limbs move of their own accord and without his conscious control, one knee lifted along the window pane, ready to fling himself to inevitable death down below.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jim sort of laughs, “I’ve changed my mind. Stop. Come back.”

John shakily rights himself, timidly walks toward him.

“Go to the kitchen. Grab a knife.”

“Jim! Stop!”

“Do it.”

He complies, and his heart pounds, thump after thump flooding his ears numbingly like thunder. When he returns, Jim’s face is grim, and he points to his chest.

“Stab me right here.”

John eyes him warily, somewhat angrily, and he can’t stop the tears from pricking his eyes. Almost amused, Jim watches his hand, clenched around the knife, shake violently. He’s definitely fighting this. It’s raised, and he gets closer, close enough to kill, close enough for Jim to see one tear fall.

“Stop. Drop it.”

The knife clatters to the floor.

“Was that enough evidence for you?”

John’s head is down, but Jim’s guard is down as well, which makes it easier for the former’s small fist to come crashing into his jaw sharply. Stumbling back in pure and utter shock from the attack, Jim glances up, eyes wide, hand gingerly nursing where John hit him. John’s eyes, normally soft and warm like melted chocolate, are flaming. The tears are gone, but the broken tone of his voice remains bitterly so.

“Asshole,” he rasps. “It’s nothing but bullshit.”

Jim has to pause; he hasn’t heard his boyfriend swear like that in a long while. But he isn’t finished.

“I don’t think you even realize the lengths I’d go to protect _you_! You! My boyfriend! A werewolf! As if any of this makes the slightest sense, which it doesn’t! But does that stop me from- No. No! Do you know why I’m not worried? Last night, when I thought you’d kill me without a second thought, I saw that resolve in you, the kind that made you stop short and remember who I am and who you are and… fuck, Jim!” John throws his hands in the air in exasperation, runs them through his hair, further mussing it up.

“We can’t take any chances with this, John,” Jim pleads, thumbing away a bit of blood from his lower lip, “and we definitely can’t take it lightly! What you saw the night before may not be so easily attainable the next time. What if I-” His hands are on John’s small shoulders, eyes urgent, desperately searching his. “What if I r- What if I do something I’ll regret?” This time he definitely looks like he’s about to cry, eyes wide, mouth downturned and trembling uncontrollably.

John softens just when he sees it and reaches up to hold Jim’s face in his small hands like he always does. It’s a gesture he knows works on him all too well. Pulling him down, John has to get on his tiptoes a little to kiss him. It’s more than just a quick peck on the lips; John kisses him as though it were his first and his last time, sort of caresses his lips with his, gives a small moan at how soft they are. Kissing Jim is like capturing a bit of heaven, and if they are to endure this small hell together, then he needs his piece of heaven.

“I’m not worried,” John mutters between kisses, practically tasting his breath on his tongue, “because I love you, you big dummy.”

“But what if-”

“I’m _not _giving up on you.”

Jim finds his lips recaptured in a sweet, searing kiss, longer this time, hungrier. Animal instinct, he thinks to himself, not helping the small smile that comes from smashing his mouth against John’s. Ravenous, just like a wolf. It’s nothing for his tiny boyfriend to push him towards the bed, shove him down, and for a moment, everything feels softer, the pillows, blanket, John’s body against his, wearing nothing but his shirt, which just barely covers his cute, perfect, round ass. Jim hardly has time to think about running his hands all over it or the warmth of his naked, lower half pressed so deliciously against his clothed groin. Combined with his flooded, bewildered mind, John presses his weight into him, one hand on his chest, the other in his hair. He doesn’t know which could distract him more, and then John decides to speak, his soft voice even softer.

“Now you listen to me.” John’s voice is firm but even and smooth, sugary, syrupy sweet. “I don’t know how else to help you except the only way I know how, because I know that I care about you. So much. And I know you care about me too. I trust in that, Jim. Isn’t that enough to work through this?”

Jim stays silent, wordlessly stares up at his lover with uncertain eyes.

“Sired or not, I’m yours.”

“But-”

“Just let me be corny, Jim and shut your beautiful, beautiful mouth.” John’s smile was warm down at him, the resemblance of his tears washed away through that smile. “I love you so much, big guy.”

Before he can say another word, Jim reaches up for a searing kiss that seems to block out any and all coherent thought. John’s thoughts are a jumble, his body giddy and vibrating with warmth and need. Jim’s soft lips and the scratch of his stubble against his cheek both make him moan in delight, and he presses his chest even closer into him. He cannot allow a single space in between, for the heat that radiates with the two of them send pleasurable tremors down where he needs it the most. Another moan falls from his parted lips wantonly, open and unashamed once Jim’s hot, wet lips make their way down his neck hungrily, and in response, Jim bites down hard into his collarbone. The chuckle from him tells John that he most definitely and without a doubt felt the twitch in his cock between them when he did it.

“Want you,” John says breathlessly, head back and eyelids fluttering at the euphoric sensation of tooth and tongue caressing his chest. His pulse throbs heatedly, and he feels it in his groin, overwhelming, overstimulating already, and even still, just not enough.

Jim grunts, amused. “Haven’t you had enough last night?”

John whines, mouth shut tight, and shakes his head wildly. “Want your mouth,” he whimpers, letting out a short cry when Jim abruptly sits up with him still in his lap. “Please.”

“On your back,” he instructs. “You’re only getting my mouth. I’m not taking any chances today.”

John rolls his eyes so hard, he’s certain they’ll fall into the back of his skull. “I’m _fine_,” he manages before a sharp gasp erupts from his mouth.

Jim has shoved him down on his back, pinning his arms above his head. “Stay. Down.” His voice sounds dangerous, something John’s always liked. Gives him shivers, the good kind, and a small, very sure smile spreads out over his face as he gives him a look that seems to say “make me”. Jim takes the challenge and bites down hard into his shoulder, relishing the short cry of blissful pain that falls from his pretty, absolutely kissable lips. He does kiss him then, harshly and then backs away with a smirk of his own as he gets down on his stomach.

“You look positively wrecked already,” he says with a hint of triumph in his tone. “Show me where you want my mouth, baby.”

With a whimper, John raises his legs, bending his knees, and Jim helps him, folding him in half, hands splayed at his thighs, and lets out a deep sigh at the sight of him exposed and open for him. “Say please,” he rumbles but he’s about to start begging himself.

“Please…” John whines, nearly choking on air at the warm, wet sensation of Jim’s tongue lapping him up like a dog in heat.

The transition is not as easy as John thought it was going to be.

After his first full moon session of realizing Jim is a werewolf, he knows immediately that he has to get used to his monster boyfriend sleeping most of the day away- for an entire week until things return to normal. At first, John is endearing, but by the end of the week, Jim can clearly tell how much of this is wearing him down. Still, he presses on, continuing to be the perfect doting boyfriend. He prides himself on it, remaining selfless and calm, as much as he possibly can be, of course. It certainly is not easy having a mythic monster for a boyfriend.

John makes sure never to say the “m” word around Jim. He can’t possibly know what it must be like to think of himself that way much less worry about how others think. And he knows it crosses Jim’s mind at least more than once a day. It’s far from easy helping him heal from these inflicting and intrusive thoughts, but John knows without a doubt since the siring that his mere presence calms him. He knows it as his hand runs through his hair, smooths over the makings of his beard tenderly, traces his jaw while he sleeps. Jim is a work of art to him, and John wishes he knew just how precious he was to him. With a heavy sigh, he rises to his feet, reaches for his phone, and saunters aimlessly to the kitchen. There is really only one person who would understand this more than anyone. It would probably take some explaining but…

“Yeah, of course I knew,” Trent laughs lightly on the other end. “Jim fucking told me.”

John’s more than caught off guard. And maybe a little upset. “He… he told _you_ before even thinking about telling _me_? His own boyfriend?” Lowering the phone for a moment and covering the mouthpiece, John takes a quick moment to control himself and then returns with a short, “Explain yourself.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, babe,” Trent replies defensively. “Rein it in a bit, will you? The man was distraught when he finally told me. He knew he could trust me enough to tell me because… well, I suppose I have to let the cat out of the bag at some point, huh. Listen, John. I’m one too.”

John can’t help the deep sigh of relief, knowing that he won’t have to personally knock his boyfriend upside the head any time soon. “Jeez Louise, how many of you are there?”

“Don’t know really. It’s pretty lonely when you assume you’re the only one like this. When Jim confided in me however, I couldn’t believe there were more. Who knows. Probably a whole pack. All we know is that we’re werewolves. Plain and simple.”

“Huh.” John tries not to sound too put off by the statement. None of this is plain and simple.

Trent hears the emotions spilling through the receiver and sighs gently into the phone. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

What can he tell him? John wonders bewilderingly. It’s difficult to come up with the right words to explain the siring and that seemingly regrettable night, not to mention the frustrating fact that Jim has not fucked, literally fucked John in over a week. Regardless, he manages to convey his thoughts to Trent the best he can, and Trent, like the saint he is, really listens this time. It feels freeing getting it all out at once, but by the end John is left with more questions than answers and waits patiently until Trent decides to speak.

“Well, since we’re already passing around each other’s dicks,” he snorts and John rolls his eyes, “I suppose there’s no other easy way to put it. The siring should have been consensual, and it’s abundantly clear that you both lost your cool that night. Hence the siring. It is nothing that cannot be maintained, though. Just something you have to get used to- and not just you but the both of you together. You have to learn to adjust to being Jim’s omega, and Jim has to learn to reconsider what he tells you to do. He’ll never put you in harm’s way.”

“Yeah.” John’s reduced himself to one word syllables again. It’s all so much, he doesn’t know how he can handle remaining so composed at this point.

“The main thing to understand is that it doesn’t always depend on the sexual aspects of the relationship,” Trent explains, and John hears the tactfulness in his voice. He knows how nervous he is of the changes. “Siring is based on trust. On both sides. Balance. Alpha and omega isn’t just about dominance and submission but security and protection for each other. Who knows? This could be easier for you since Jim hasn’t turned you yet. Control could be on your side once every full moon, learning how to handle him and tame him better. And you don’t even have to turn at all. Less stress for you.”

“I don’t even want to be turned,” John grumbles into the mouthpiece, studying his nails dutifully. He hears Trent laugh.

“That’s what I said after Brian sired me.”

John sits up. “You too?”

“Of course! Dude, if you don’t know my constant need to lose control than you don’t know me at all. And I suppose losing a bit of my own firm resolve is healthy for me. Brian sees the controlling perfectionist, and I allow him to take the reins or, pardon the pun, the leash once in a while. It strengthens our relationship in a sense. Not to mention, it makes it more fun.”

It’s silent for a good half a minute, and John reddens at the thought of being with Jim like that again for the next full moon. “Do you… have you…” He stumbles searching for the right word to use. “Do you think I’ll get used… to it?”

“Holy shit.”

John bites his lip and thinks he’s never felt more embarrassed in his life.

“Holy shit,” Trent says again, and John wishes he could fucking say something else. After a moment, he chuckles. “You little butt slut.”

John scoffs once. “Trent, this is serious.”

“Of course it is, dumbass! Why else do you think I’m reacting this way? I mean, how did you fucking do it? No, please don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Listen, though. If what you insinuated actually happened, then you might not have such a difficult time taming him every full moon. The way I see it, the beast in Jim has already grown accustomed to the scent and taste of you in that way that it’ll be more of a mating ritual than a hunt.”

Dumbfounded, John feels the heat rush to his face at the word “mating”. That couldn’t mean… “As in I’ll get pregnant?”

“No!” Trent gags. “Ugh, yuck! Definitely not, John. Keep up, will you? Last time I checked, you don’t have a pussy. No, mating for the two of you means something completely different. It’s a bond, that’s all.” Silence cuts in shortly after again, but when Trent continues, John hears the gentleness in his voice he knows he’s capable of. “I know this is all new for you, John, and perhaps a bit daunting, but I promise Jim will take care of you. And you to him. And if you explain this to him as well, perhaps it will put his mind at ease. I have a feeling he’s beating himself up over a lot of things right now, namely your safety.”

John nods despite Trent not able to see him do it. The silence is placid this time, and Trent takes that as his chance to shift the conversation. “Look, Brian wants to go to bed and knowing him, it will take a whole fucking thirty minutes to get him off my lap. Everything will be ok, John.”

For some strangely reassuring reason, John is comforted by those words and believes him. “Thank you,” he says softly.

“Good night.”

“Where are we headed?” Jim asks quizzically. He hears crickets chirp nearby and wonders why in the hell are they wandering through the woods just as the sun goes down. Of course, he is irritable, and perhaps it’s just because he can feel what will happen in only a few hours, the first stages of pain and torment before he turns, his bones snapping and rearranging to form this monster. When John doesn’t respond, he squeezes the hand that holds his, dragging him relentlessly through woods and pulls him back. “Answer me, John.”

At first, his omega looks frustrated, wrenches himself from Jim’s grip, but knows this is an order and takes a deep breath. “I’m taking you somewhere safe, so-”

“So I don’t kill anyone in the process?” It doesn’t sound like a statement, and Jim’s mouth is grim, accusing, defenseless.

“I’m trying to make sure your transition is as painless as possible, Jim,” John simply says, turning back around and grabbing his hand again. “The least you could be is grateful.”

Guilt hits Jim instantly, and he bows his head, ashamed, giving John’s hand an extra squeeze to apologize. John doesn’t verbally reply, but his thumb strokes over the top of Jim’s hand, so softly he’s afraid he cannot feel it.

“Everything will be all right.”

Once they reach further, John, satisfied, approaches a tree, rests against the trunk, and pats the spot next to him. He’s looking up at Jim hopefully, the tentative beginnings of a smile on his lovely face. Jim slumps down against the tree, glances at him warily. “Look, if you’re thinking about staying-”

“Before you tell me to leave,” John interjects quickly, “let me tell you why I’m going to stay.” Jim scoffs once, knowing this will be a fight, knowing how stubborn, stubborn as a Leo, John can get, but he waits and lets him explain. “I know you’re worried about hurting me, and I’m worried about the chances of that happening too. I can’t allow you to do this alone, though. Please, Jim. Let me stay with you once the sun goes down. I want to do whatever I can to make this less painful for you.”

His eyes look so pleading, so desperate to be near him that Jim can hardly usher the words out of his mouth to tell him no. Instead he softens, smiles, draws John in close, and kisses his forehead. “It’s no use arguing with you,” he murmurs into his hair with a small chuckle. “You’ll always win, won’t you? Makes me wonder who’s really sired to who.” But he knows that even if John is determined to stay, he has to find other loopholes in order to protect him. With two fingers, he lifts John’s chin, forces him to meet his gaze completely. Then in hushed undertones, deep and firm, he says, “But if you feel your life being threatened, if I happen to lose my control entirely, if I mistake you for anyone other than my omega, I need you to run.”

John’s trying not to look into his eyes, looks anywhere else, the earthen ground, the leaves of the trees, anywhere, but Jim’s grip is like steel.

“Promise me, John.”

That’s an order. John has to nod, and part of him knows to obey, knows he will run because it is in Jim’s best interests. He hopes it never comes down to that, though.

With a sigh of something that sounds like relief, Jim presses a final kiss to the side of John’s head and relaxes when he feels him fall against his broad shoulder.

John doesn’t know when he dozed off, but when he wakes up, Jim is no longer beside him. Instead he kneels in a heap, naked, hands and knees in the mud and earth, panting and grunting and heaving. Night has fallen, and the full moon glitters over them both, casting the whole of the woods in a shimmering canopy of pale light. Seems taunting. John bites his lower lip nervously, knowing that Jim is already in pain and that the transformation is only just beginning.

He hesitates to approach him but does so anyway, desperate to give his boyfriend any amount of comfort he can before he turns and loses all resolve. Jim is unresponsive to his footsteps, only manages to let out a few cries in between his heavy breaths. The cries startle John in their sharp resonance. He hates to hear him like this, frantic almost, his moans and grunts in rhythm with each rise and fall of his back as he struggles to breathe. Eyebrows furrowed in deep concern, John kneels down with him, tentatively rests a hand on his shoulder, but pulls back with a gasp in alarm. He’s not just sweaty; he’s soaked and heat radiates from his body at what appears to be an abnormal human temperature. Like steam.

“Jim!” John cries, and it’s like waking the beast almost instantly.

One crack has Jim yelling out in agony, and John falls back in horror, using his elbows as leverage and watching as the bumps and knots in Jim’s spine start to grow. Another and another and another. A merciless process. Each one sends Jim groveling deeper and deeper into the dirt, forehead pressed against it, fists pounding into the earth for relief of any kind. With one final _crack_, the moans and cries Jim makes rise in volume and pitch in a state of frenzied, delirious panic. Mouth open in terror, John gapes as the hair on his arms begins to grow, spreading to his hands, legs, torso, everywhere, thickening. His nails lengthen to claws and rake in the dirt, gathering it up in his fists as if they hold the solution to end this torment. Amidst all the growls and gasps and moans, John hears one sound that reminds him of a dog, a pathetic, pitiful whine risen to a squeak, and a lump forms in his throat.

John has never felt more useless in his life.

He utters his name once, reaches out one hand to console him, but it’s his first mistake. In a flash and with pain searing down his spine, John finds himself thrown right back against the tree. He yelps in alarm and struggles to get back up again but finds Jim’s fist clinging to the fabric of his shirt. As though he is staring death in the face, John quiveringly surveys the rows of sharp teeth, sharp as razors, and the two, blazing, golden eyes.

“_**Get. Back.**_”

Jim’s voice has deepened, distorted into a growl, and John realizes that that will be the last he hears from him coherently in a long while. All he can do is stare, shrinking in size as the man before him towers overhead, muscles thickening and swelling, face contorting, elongating. As John stares, he knows that he’s not looking at Jim anymore. Jim is inside. All he has to do is get him to come out.

The roar is deafening, seems to last for hours, and John watches with one eye shut, flinching away, as Jim pulls back with something of a triumphant snarl. Thick saliva drips down his ginormous teeth, frothing at his maw, and a continuous growl erupts from the back of his throat. The inflections of it rise in volume just when John attempts to move. He freezes in place at the sound and dares to glance up, only biting back a shriek at the face staring back at him heatedly. With a gulp, John stares back, searching those eyes for some sort of recognition. Finding none, he shuts his eyes tight and raises a hand, a gesture of defense, like placing his hand in front of a strange dog to sniff it.

He waits.

He feels it.

John glides his hand through the smooth fur, up towards the mane, and his shoulders almost drop in relief. He hears a sniff, feels Jim getting closer and closer until he’s nuzzling his neck as if he needs to catch every whiff of his scent just to know that it is him.

John remembers the moment of a single claw running ever-so-tenderly down his cheek, and when he feels it again, he finally opens his eyes and looks at the beast before him wordlessly. If any human emotion can cross through that face, John sees it in those eyes, not blazing anymore but glimmering over like embers from a fire ready to ignite again. There’s an inherent need in those eyes, the same need John gave him just over a week ago, the same need he felt when those claws had raked down his back, when those teeth had bit into his shoulder, when that _tongue _had cleaned him up, tasting him. John shivers under the gaze, feels the hot breath waft over his face, knows that the mood has shifted as soon as Jim smelled him.

With every movement as his wobbly legs can manage, John stands to his feet and keeps his eyes trained on the beast, who rises with him, standing upright in an ominous, towering stance looming over him. When he bends down again to nuzzle him, John gasps at the tongue and lets out an involuntary moan. He can’t help it. From the moment he stood growling over him, ready to tear him apart, John had felt himself get hard unabashedly so, and the twitch in his skin-tight pants reminds him of the current, precarious situation. It’s as though Jim can smell the carnal desire on his person, the musky, heavy scent of lust he had experienced for the first time that night. It makes a pleasant-sounding rumble erupt from deep in his broad chest, louder than a kitten’s purr, softer than thunder.

John hears it and nearly writhes out of his skin. It almost sends his whole body vibrating for him, and he has to reach behind to clutch the trunk of the tree for support. And when one large hand grabs both of his wrists, holds them up, keeps them in plain sight, Jim hears the distress in John’s voice when he calls his name, the distress begging him to do _something_. So he does, uttering one word as comprehensibly as he can, one word that makes John’s eyes dilate, makes his body quiver beneath him.

“**Stay**.”

John has no choice but to comply, and even if he had the free will at the moment to decide, he wouldn’t run. Why would he run from those large, strong, gruff hands holding him in place and tearing his clothes from his body one seam at a time. This is exactly where he wants to be.

The creature’s glowing, golden eyes rake over John’s naked body, and the latter hears another rumbling hum before the next distorted word.

“_**Mine**_.”

John yelps as he’s picked up, held high in the air and feels a blush fan out over his body at the sight of his throbbing cock just inches away from Jim’s waiting mouth. His tongue curls along the underside, laves flat up the shaft, and draws a loud, wanton, ragged moan out of John that sends his head falling back in ecstasy, eyes fluttering shut. He plunges down without a second thought, and John nearly chokes on air, small hands fisting into the thick, coarse fur on his werewolf’s shoulders. The teeth just barely graze him, making him hitch in his throat. _He could snap his dick in half with only his teeth_ and John can’t help but think how exhilarating that thought is. He’s so hard that he aches, painfully so, pulsating in Jim’s hot mouth, and within any minute he’ll come sooner than he’d like. Jim hears the whorish, desperate sounds from up above, and he hums once more. The vibrations alone send John twitching and stuttering erratically, eyes rolling back in pleasure. He tries to moan, but they come out short and cut off with each spurt that spills down Jim’s throat until finally he lets himself fall forward against his beast with a loud sob. When Jim lets him down, he’s practically limp in his arms, lulled by the deep rumbling in his chest.

When John turns his head, lips wet and parted, bleary-eyed, he sees Jim, his werewolf, staring back with blatant heat in his blazing eyes, on all fours, his knotted cock red, leaking, and waiting. Only a moan falls from John’s lips when he lets a fourth finger slip through and curls down once just to make himself scream a little. He knows the beast likes that. A low growl in his ear and hot breath over his neck and back halt him in his progress, tells him that’s enough, and he’s turned over on his back, picked up, and aligned with the throbbing, pulsing member. All he has to do is whimper, and Jim comforts him with a soft lick to his cheek.

John doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to that stretch, the feeling as if he is being torn apart from the inside. He’s pined for that feeling since he first discovered it, and now that he’s feeling every inch slide in, wrapped in Jim’s powerful embrace, he knows there’s no where else that he would rather be in that perfect moment. Gripping those large forearms that hold his thighs wide open, pliant, and ready, John squeezes his eyes closed, opens his mouth, but no sound comes. He opens up, gives in, bottoming out, knot and all until he’s sputtering, babbling for leverage, feeling so full, so fucking full that he can hardly think.

Jim gives the first thrust, and John’s seeing more than stars; he sees fireworks sparking behind his eyelids, blinding, bleeding white light. He had been much too sensitive to continue, but at the glorious sensation of being filled to the brim and Jim’s leaking tip brushing against his spot, John knows without a doubt that he’ll come, over and over if he has to. Anything to please his beast.

Jim’s claws dig into his thighs, sure to make him bleed and starts to pick up the pace. John knows he’s unable to hold on for much longer and simply allows himself to fall backwards, to be used like a little fleshlight, impaled over and over again on his boyfriend’s knotted cock until he can take no more. When his beast pulls out, John almost starts to cry in protest at the unwanted feeling of being too empty. He’s placed on his front, ass up, showing off his gaping hole, and to his delight, Jim slides back in with ease and so much as a grunt of satisfaction followed by a dominating growl.

Each thrust sends John forward roughly, scrabbling for the earth beneath his fingertips, crying out each and every time he takes him. Once more he comes too soon, untouched into the dirt, shuddering and rocking back against Jim’s cock to receive as much as he can. It’s the most beautiful sound listening to John come, and when Jim feels him clench repeatedly on his own stiff length, he senses himself getting close. In mere seconds, endless spurts of thick, hot seed spill into John, filling him up even further. It’s so intense, John wonders if he could come again just from that sensation alone. And when Jim pulls out, he lets out a shaky sigh as his release leaks right back out.

The seconds end, and John’s strength leaves his limbs. He collapses only to feel himself being rolled over by two strong, large hands, and for a brief moment, his vision blurs. The first thing he sees when he comes to is the moon, a little less taunting now, cascading a canopy of white light over the two of them. Jim licks his cheek again and drags him back toward his chest effortlessly like he weighs next to nothing.

Enveloped under the pale glow of the moon, John wraps his arms around his beast and nestles his face deep into his chest, uttering only one word.

“Mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you enjoyed, leave a kudo and a comment. Recommend these to fellow monster lovers if you feel like it and stay tuned for the next chapter. <3


	11. LOVE IS STORED IN THE KNOT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Jim is obviously not human and he's got something that could prove it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title says it all really.
> 
> Hi. I started this and ended this in a day. I have literally been alone in my apartment in quarantine and stayed in bed writing. This is how I stay busy. 
> 
> For Luke/cobwebsaint. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

John never actually wonders why they hadn’t fucked on their first date, and even if he does now and then, it isn’t as though he is worried. Far from it actually. Jim is sweet, sweet as candy all wrapped up in six feet of him. Seems sort of cliché that John had actually found his- no, not six foot two- _six foot six _man of his dreams, but everything about them is cliché, how they met, how they stayed together, how they continue to stay together. So when they have that first date, Jim gets dressed up real nice and treats John like royalty for the entire night at dinner, listening to him, prioritizing him, threatening to bury the lousy fuck in cement that catcalled him earlier.

John remembers how big Jim’s leather jacket had been around his shoulders, how safe he had felt there, nestled in his arms until they got to the car.

The giant of a man tells him sheepishly that he does not want to fuck on the first date and does not exactly know if or when he would be ready to do something like that with him, and for a moment, he has this insanely worried look on his face as though those words alone have ruined their entire night together. John assures him they haven’t, although he cannot help but feel a twinge of disappointment at the declaration. It is something he kind of hoped for.

Aloud, he manages to tell him no worries! He wasn’t expecting something like that (big lie there) and nuzzles deeper in his jacket, against the crook of his arm, in the back of the cab. Once they get back to John’s place, he offers to suck his cock instead, fingering the belt loops of his pants and yanking him closer to him; it’s as seductive as he can get really with a coy smile and fluttering lashes. But Jim is firm, takes his wrists in his two large hands, gently but securely, removes them from the waistline of his pants, says he’s made his decision; he just doesn’t feel comfortable with it and that is that. John immediately apologizes because his intentions are not to make his date anxious, on the contrary! Instead, he kisses his lips softly, their first kiss of the evening, and tells him he understands, but Jim sees how he’s visibly wilted.

When he kisses him back, it’s more forceful, passionate, earnest, just the way John likes it, and he’s up against the wall, pinned beneath the engulfing weight of Jim’s body with both legs spread, room enough for Jim to slide a leg in between and gently knee his crotch, which John rushes to meet. He gyrates helplessly against it, and Jim merely watches, enthralled by the obscene display, and cannot help but think that this cute, sexy little fucker has needed this since he first laid eyes on him. With another soft, searing kiss to his jaw, Jim plays up the theatrics a bit, wonders if he can dangle him on his strings a little bit longer until he snaps and begs for _something_. Because he can still make John feel insanely good; it doesn’t just have to be from his cock. John seems to shudder at that, and Jim considers that a good sign before he starts attacking his throat with little nips, licks, kisses, and bites. And John, brain and legs turned to mush, absentmindedly reaches for Jim’s hard on.

Thankfully one of their brains is working as Jim snatches his wrists like a viper, pins them over his head, asserting dominance. He gives him a dangerous look, not necessarily a reprimanding one because there is one thing for certain; he will make John come over and over again tonight if he has to. And he certainly wants to. John begs him, _please_, and before he knows it, he’s practically scooped up and thrown on the bed, every inch of his clothing torn or shrugged off desperately, frantically with Jim only in his boxers.

_Fucker_, John thinks, groaning inwardly, because he really, _really _wants to see how much Jim is packing under there.

In two seconds, it does not really matter because Jim is determined to give him the best blow and rim job of his fucking life.

So this is different and entirely unorthodox as John will admit. And he isn’t normally one to creep on Jim when he’s “going to bathroom”, but if he’s being perfectly honest with himself, he was only walking past the door when he heard what could be labored breathing on the other side. John keeps telling himself he’ll apologize later, he will, but he cannot tear his eyes away from the scene.

Jim, soaking wet, freshly out of the shower, stands slightly bent in the stall with one hand against the wall for leverage. John takes a moment to admire his large frame. He’s hairier than most guys, he’s noticed, perhaps abnormally hairy, but somehow John has always loved that about him. Like a teddy bear, a teddy bear that plays amazing guitar and gives really, really, _really _good head. At times, John has probably given him the pet name too. Of course, since they’ve become so close. John finds he’s almost drooling over the flexing of Jim’s back and arm muscles while he makes those rapid, familiar gestures with the hand he failed to notice. The other hand is on his cock. His fucking massive cock. So big, John can practically see the way the veins pulse, the way the shaft twitches at any moment neglected.

John’s mouth waters like Pavlov’s dog at the sight. It’s thick and rather long, and all this time, John’s mind wanders, wondering why on earth had Jim kept this from him. Does he think he can’t handle his size? Please. John’s a champ. John is up for any challenge, that is, until he notices _it_, size just a little bigger than a golf ball swelling around the base of his shaft. His eyes widen a little as he takes it in, mind running more than a mile a minute now.

He decides he’s seen enough.

“So, we need to talk.”

When John gets a voice like that, all flooded with concern and a little quake in his tone, Jim knows to stop everything he’s doing and look him in the eye. So he sets aside the rag, puts the dish down, removes his gloves, and sits down at what could be considered their kitchen table and their coffee table and the place-where-everything-is-dumped-including-John’s-ass-when-Jim-blows-him table (which they clean afterwards of course).

“Okay, shoot.”

John sucks air through his teeth and pauses to collect himself. He certainly didn’t think asking would be this hard. “Are you…” His mouth is suddenly dry, so he swallows and sits down with him. Now Jim is starting to look as concerned as he is. “Are you okay? I just really need to know at this point because I can’t have you pulling me aside to tell me you have some cancerous cyst in your-” Well, part of it is out, but not until Jim finally speaks up.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Babe, what are you talking about? Cancer? Wh-”

“Look, Jim, I _saw _it.”

“Saw _what_? What the fuck are you talking about, John?” Then Jim pauses because _shit_, he _saw it_, either somehow walking in on him in the shower or something else, but none of that matters at the moment; nothing except John’s visible frown. “Oh.”

“Yeah, don’t fucking swear at me, you dope,” John pouts, averts his eyes.

Jim’s trying to make amends by reaching for his hand at this point, crooning, “No, no, no! Hey, baby, it’s not cancer. I promise. I mean, I thought it was testicular cancer…”

“Don’t think so.” John’s still not looking at him, arms crossed, slumped in his seat with a face that warns no one to fuck with him.

“Okay,” Jim relents, “but even still, I don’t. Promise. It’s… something else.”

“Well, what is it then?” John sounds exasperated, but at least he’s looking at him. “Have you been tested for it at least to know for sure that it isn’t cancer?”

“Yes, John, I have tested for it to know for sure that it is not cancer.” Jim gives him a mildly irritated glance.

“Hey,” John says, wounded. “I just worry about you! Stop laughing! It’s not funny-” Although, he cannot help but stumble out a laugh himself, despite the fact that he also looks like he is literally about to cry.

“Yes it is. You’re too cute, I swear to Christ. Come here.”

Jim takes both of John’s hands in his, looks him in the eyes, his own twinkling from laughter, but this time he remains serious for him. “I’m fine. But this has always been there, okay? And I mean, it’s not going away any time soon. Is that all right with you?”

John nods because the truth is out of course, or at least, the truth that Jim allows him to know for the time being. Of course, he would be. Jim is everything to him. One little physically added detail to his anatomy is not going to change how he feels about him. Not negatively that is. In that brief span of time that Jim holds his hands, he remembers the size of it, the way it pulsed with the rest of his fucking huge cock, practically begging to be inside him, every last inch. Before he lets himself get lost in his fantasy, he quickly draws himself back to the reality of Jim rubbing his thumb tenderly over the tops of his hands.

“So,” he begins, searching for the right way to ask this, “it’s just always been there?”

Jim nods slowly. “Mhmm…”

“Huh.” It’s just a short noncommittal noise, and John walks away, down the hall, straight for the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” he hears Jim call after him.

“Just need a shower!”

Jim huffs out a laugh. “_Sure _you do.”

“Shut _up_!” More of Jim’s light laughter echos down the hall until John shuts the door, tight, locks it, turns on the fan, the shower, and gets in. He jacks off and fingers himself to the fantasy of Jim’s very own fucking _knot _railing him from behind all the way up to the hilt, and not even John’s whole hand up there would be able to satisfy him the way he knows Jim’s cock will.

It’s a cold night, but Jim turns on the heater in their bedroom, dims the lights to make it more cozy, and then climbs into bed, wrapping his arms around John’s small frame and dragging him closer to his chest. John can get lost in the sound of his gentle heartbeat and nuzzles his whole face deeper, inhaling his scent. Musk, a hint of his cologne, a clean, after shower smell. John cannot get enough of it. Even the way Jim strokes the tendrils of his blonde hair seem to lull him in something of a trance.

When he looks up, they kiss, a soft, innocent little kiss that makes sparks fly from the embers deep in John’s stomach. Jim’s hand on his cheek draws him in closer, and his mouth molds to his, hot and wet and heavy now with stronger, lingering kisses that makes John pause for breath.

Jim does not stop though. The sound of John’s soft, little breaths mix with the beating of his heart, ever increasing the pace as he rolls them over, John beneath him and staring up at him with large eyes, anticipating his next move. Jim nuzzles into his neck, enjoying the short gasps and cries that fall from his lips when he nips at his throat, bites into the pressure point dip between his neck and shoulder, drags his teeth across his collarbone. It ushers a low, ragged moan from John’s lovely lips, and when Jim pulls back just to hover over him, John looks debauched, utterly wrecked already.

Good.

John is palpable and pliant in Jim’s capable hands, soft and docile, with occasional whines slipping from his kissable lips at every garment of clothing Jim manages to remove from his body. And when Jim finally takes in every inch of him, he sucks in a breath.

“Beautiful.”

John blushes. Jim thinks to himself, he’ll make him do more than blush. He removes his shirt fluidly, discards it somewhere in the room, and returns to kissing John, unable to get enough of his mouth. Every moan into his mouth, he swallows them down, hips deliberately grinding down against John’s naked cock and ushering more sweet sounds from him. When they break away, John begins to beg.

“Need you… please… please, Jim.”

Jim smirks. “Turn over,” he orders and John does with one final whimper.

Jim’s hands are all over him now, sliding down his back, squeezing and parting his ass cheeks. He hears John suck in a breath, watches his hips lift gratefully to his touch. One slap and a sharp “No” keeps him down, docile. If this is what he wanted, he will wait it out. Jim smiles to himself; once again he’s pulling the strings.

John feels the bed shift, wishes he could turn around. Just when he is about to call Jim’s name, he’s hovering over him once more and reaching for the bottle of lube on their bedside table. One final kiss against his shoulder, and he disappears again, on his stomach and between his parted legs. As soon as John feels the hot, wet tongue against his entrance, he nearly screams in relief. Instead, he whines loudly, muffling it into the pillow. He hears Jim chuckle against him. Fucker. He wonders how long he’s going to make him wait for what he really wants.

Jim spitting onto his crack brings him back to the present instantly, and when he rubs it in soothingly with one finger, John shudders into the touch, cooing contently into the pillow. He feels a kiss on his cheek, and then Jim goes right back to pleasing him with his tongue, worshipping him with his mouth. And at any other time, John would lie in bliss and allow himself to come over and over again just by his tongue alone, but he wants something and worries he’ll come to soon if things continue this way.

“Jim,” he practically sobs into the pillow. Clearly he pleads, “Just… just…”

Running just a single finger down his entrance, Jim hums, marveling over the way it clenched at his mere touch. “Just what, honey?” His tone is teasing, somewhat condescending, as though he is going to drag the words from his lips.

“Just…” John’s own voice has risen in pitch by now, and his body quivers beneath Jim’s gaze, needing him, needing his touch desperately. Needing something more. “Just put it inside me, Jim! Please…”

The chuckle makes his shoulders slump; he knows this will take longer if he continues to beg. “I’m not going to tear you apart, baby.”

Huffing once, frustrated, John says, “I wish you _would_.”

The light smack to his butt removes the irritation from his tone and replaces it instead with something more deliciously submissive. Jim adores that all he has to do is touch him once to make him fall into place, like clay in his hands. In a warning voice, he asks, “Do you want to wait longer?”

John immediately shakes his head then chokes on the breath he takes when one lube-slick finger makes its way inside him. “Jim…”

“Shh…” Jim no longer sounds reprimanding but gentle, soothing, seductive, and he leans forward, kissing the small of John’s back with the same tenderness as when he kissed his lips. John responds in kind with a soft, pleased noise, and Jim feels him tense, waiting for anything else he has to offer. Another finger slides in just as easily, and John visibly shakes at the stretch, enough to make Jim gingerly rest his hand over his quivering spine. “One more?” Even for him, he isn’t so certain.

John, however, nods vigorously, turns his head, and looks at Jim with need, desire, and euphoria mixed within his eyes. In the smallest voice imaginable, he begs, “Please.”

It’s the please that moves him, and Jim hastily but carefully removes his fingers to add more lube. This time, it’s harder, and John’s body feels like a taut, knotted rope beneath Jim’s hand, the sound of pained pleasure he makes loud and clear and delicious, the sheen of sweat that forms on every inch of his frame once Jim curls his fingers.

“So good…” John chokes out and reaches behind, gripping Jim’s wrist, holding him there, feeling as though he could burst.

It isn’t enough.

When Jim removes his fingers, John whines at the empty sensation, gyrates his hips back at nothing. In the smallest second, Jim wants to kneel and simply watch the display. Anything to hear John’s whines grow louder, more frantic, more needy. It’s wonderfully pathetic really, how desperate he is for something that can literally push him to the limit. And he will very nearly have it. Jim feels it now, straining against his boxers, hot and heavy against his thigh. The way John almost seems to thrash against the bed like he can _smell it_.

Jim pulls his boxers down effortlessly, lets out a throaty sigh as he’s released out into the open air, and John hasn’t noticed anything yet, all feeble and shaking with impatience; Jim decides he’ll tease him just a little bit longer. What a relief it will be when he finally slides in. For the both of them. With a soft hum, Jim grips his cock and promptly taps it between John cheeks, startling him. The begging starts up again, and Jim would shush him, but at this point it is fucking music to his ears. As he lubes himself up, there’s a moment where he knows he could possibly blow his load as soon as he’s inside; Jim shudders at the inevitable notion as his slick thumb brushes over the head, as his palm grazes over the pulsing knot and shaft. He _needs _to be inside John. _Now. _

So when he takes a breath, aligns himself, and slowly pushes in, John’s pleas become praise, babbling, incoherent praise just when the head pushes its way inside. Then inch by inch the shaft eventually disappears, and they both know what comes next. Jim adds more lube just in case, and John silently thanks him for it, heart pounding, throbbing in his temples, the back of his neck growing from hot to cold in seconds. With the stretch comes an extra burn, and Jim can just feel himself get harder when he hears the soft yelp on impact. John’s eyes are squeezed shut, he notices, the side of his face pressed against the pillows, hands making small fists into the sheets.

“Relax, baby,” Jim soothes, rubs his hands up and down his sides, gasping only when he feels the give and then the warm confines encompassing him fully. He is all the way inside.

Everything stops, or so it would seem. With wide eyes, John gives a loud “oh”, intermingling with Jim’s low groan and struggles to find his words.

“Oh my god, oh my god. Oh my god, Jim! Oh fuck, Jim, move, oh my god, move!”

Caught on a tight rope just like him, Jim masks his shock with soft words of encouragement. “It’s okay, angel… Doing so well for me…” But John is already gone at the first easing thrust. No words anymore. Just sound, pure, raw sound endlessly, rhythmically falling from his lips, from the back of his throat and meeting every thrust Jim gives him. Fucking him is effortless now, and Jim matches the power of his thrusts with the onslaught of John’s consistent moans, his intentions to have him screaming his name by the time he is nearly there, nearly pushed over the edge towards release.

John doesn’t know when he came, but the aftershocks of his orgasm rocket him through Jim’s continuous rutting as though he is breeding him, marking him like an animal, as his and only his. It is more than carnal; it seems natural in a sense, primal, the way it was always meant to be.

Jim comes inside after one last wild thrust that morphs into a series of broken ruts, and he drapes himself over his boyfriend’s trembling body, still trembling ever so in his high, determined to fuck every last drop in him. They stay like that for a while, waiting for him to calm, his breath hot against John’s shoulder and neck, John’s breath hot against the sheets. As soon as they both move, they do it together, Jim pulling out carefully and collapsing backward against the bed and taking John with him. He feels soft, short kisses against his knuckles, takes that as a thank you for the night John never realized he truly needed.

After they wash up, Jim remains awake into the night, listening to the even sounds of John’s breath as he sleeps. He does not know why he suddenly felt the resolve that now was the time, but he knows it was something they both needed together.

Even if John doesn’t know everything, about who he is, about why things are the way they are, he can always tell him some other day. Far into the future.

Jim’s eyes seem to glow in amber as he smiles, and he too falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like these monster stories? Recommend them to a friend!  
Be sure to leave a kudo and comment if you liked it. It's much appreciated and lets me know what I'm doing good and should keep going.  
Much love. <3


	12. John5 and the Prince from Hell!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die: For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil. ~Genesis 3:4-5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, Manson is not a nice demon. If you've read the first part, you know, but those who haven't, please know that there are some violent bits in this sequel, so if it isn't for you, that is totally fine. If you do decide to read, you've been warned. 
> 
> I spent most of my day finishing this up, and I feel more and more like Stephen King, except instead of writing three hours straight a day, it's more like five or six hours today. Goodness.

The librarian looks at John warily as he struggles to dump a heaping pile of books onto the front checkout desk. Breathlessly, wordlessly, he searches his wallet for his library card and hands it to her shortly. When she doesn’t take it, he glances up nervously and then back down at the selection of books he’s chosen. Of course.

Titles like “The Satanic Bible”, “Necronomicon”, “The Book of Forbidden Knowledge”, and even “Spells and Rituals for Dummies”, almost excluding the last one, stare up at him glaringly. John swallows hard and sheepishly looks back at the woman waiting impatiently. “I’m a, uh, a demonology major,” he tries, handing her his library card. She doesn’t look convinced but takes it anyway, the shrill clicking of her oversized fake nails typing making him jump. Handing the card back to him, her stare hardens in both confusion and irritation as John scurries to gather all the books in his arms.

“Do you need a bag or something?” It doesn’t sound like a question, and John has grown rather tired of her incessant rudeness. He does, however, shake his head at her with a feigned smile (as if anyone could resist that sweet face, but apparently she can).

“No, no!” he insists, backing away quickly. “I’m all set. Have a… have a good night!” And before she can bother to protest, regardless of whether or not she wants to help him at all still, John rushes out the door, the stack of books almost as big as he is and threatening to topple over.

His smile fades instantly as he makes his way down the sidewalk towards his apartment. It’s not as if this is a familiar occurrence. John just cannot seem to get the past series of unnatural events out of his head. He remembers the taste of the demon’s heavy musk on his tongue all too clearly, the mustiness of the quiet cathedral seeming to judge him when he fearfully sucked his cock, the silken robes pushed aside to reveal throbbing appendages that plugged every orifice he had, pushed in until he choked on cum, spit, the tentacle nudging the back of his throat. John shudders as the scenes flash back in his mind, but, he realizes, not completely from fear. He walks faster, clutching the books closer to his chest.

With thoughts like these, hell is just around the corner.

John purses his lips and flips the page in frustration. It is hard to discern whether or not these “incantations” and “evocations” are just a load of crap. Perhaps he’s just been watching too much “American Horror Story” and “Sabrina: The Teenage Witch”, he shakes his head, flipping another page and wrinkling his nose at the picture of a kingly figure riding a camel with two demons on either side of him. That guy is definitely _not _the demon he wishes to summon. Definitely not. He reads the name. Paimon. Requires a human male vessel and will offer good familiars and control over others. That is not necessarily something John wants, and it is probably too dangerous anyway. Pass.

Lilith greets him on the next page, coiling in a large serpent’s tail and seeming to leer at him deviously. Deemed the patron of abortions by famed Irish author James Joyce, John decides, if none of this works, he would come back to her later, try again. Nothing more sexy than a powerful woman advocating for full control over her own body. He’d let her control his, but unfortunately she isn’t the demon he is looking for either.

John sighs, frustrated, and throws the book into the far corner of his bedroom. No, this demon had called himself Manson and certainly couldn’t be found in any of these books. It absolutely doesn’t seem as if these authors and witnesses of demons had ever summoned one much less knowing about how exactly to summon one. Typical, he thinks glumly and slumps against his pillows. As if any of this was going to be easy.

John has his fears as well as his ambitions when dealing something as dire as evocation. It’s dark. Untouchable. Deplorable. And his reasons for doing so fill him with added shame, almost as much as the shame he felt when Manson took him. There is something about this demon, however that draws him toward him despite all of the terrible things he had done to him before. Weeks since it happened, and John hasn’t been able to sleep, even so much as think about anything else. It’s affected his relationships, his career- his own family has even stopped talking to him. Not exactly their fault. It’s not as though he’s managed to keep in contact with them or his friends for that matter.

And in those weeks, John’s phone simply stopped ringing. It wouldn’t be long before he’s asked to stop coming to work. Even if he wished to blame “Manson”, as he called himself, he would not. He had lost faith even before he had gazed into those hellish, beautiful eyes.

John wipes away the tear as it slides down his cheek, hot and wet, a disinterested gesture, careless, and turns to another book. He knows he won’t find what he’s looking for in this one either, but the steps to cast a perfect, successful evocation pique his interest, the lettering flooding his eyes with page after page of dark, risky summoning. All he hesitates at performing but would do if he wants this to work.

The lights flicker once, drawing John out of his drowning focus. Perhaps it is a sign.

John tosses and turns, unable to sleep. All that occupies his brain are the rites, the gnawing feeling of being unfulfilled, the name of the demon playing in his head like a broken record. He turns to the side with a huff, eyes the stack of books on his nightstand. The gnawing feeling increases, prods at him like a thousand tiny needles until he abruptly rises from his bed, only the whisper of uncertainty remaining in his determination. He does not know if this will work at all or worse, he somehow does not make it out in one piece. The smallest bit of him that begs him to rethink this knows that this isn’t a joke, especially since his first dire encounter.

**Perhaps I’ll come to you again.**

That is what he’s counting on. John hardly knows why at this point, but it will only eat him alive should he choose to ignore it.

The candles are small, some of them half-used and rustic at best, and when John strikes the match, the noise seems to echo throughout the tiny room. The chalk makes a grating noise as he slides it across the hardwood floor, and he almost flinches at the sound but doesn’t stop until he’s created the circle. Although, he doubts that it will offer much protection against what he is about to do. The authors of those books, some proclaiming to be dark witches and sorcerers, had chided vigorously on the pentacle being inverted. Any demon John wishes to summon would not pay heed to him if he decides to willfully and ignorantly use light magic. Which means that any protection at his expense goes out the window.

Regardless, John sucks in a sharp breath and finishes his pentagram, surveying his rather shoddy work with a small wrinkle of his nose. He almost hopes it will please Manson when he kicks himself suddenly for nearly forgetting the very last ingredient to his twisted spell. Hastily he scratches it into the hardwood floor, right in the middle of the pentagram with the chalk.

מנסון

He hardly comprehends why the name must be written in Hebrew. Some passages had urged it. In blaspheming the Judeo-Christian god, John would be calling for the very angels that ‘god’ had rejected by rejecting him himself. But they are not angels anymore. Something darker. Fallen. John rests his hand over the inscription tentatively and wets his lips to recite the words.

The language is not anything he has heard before, more other-worldly than foreign, more deplorable than dead and ancient. Every syllable on the sheet in his hand runs alive yet dangerously close to death, like running off the edge of a cliff and screaming maniacally until the flesh and bones smash against the rocky shore. When John huffs out a breath to speak it, each syllable is guttural, ravaging his soft voice hoarse and raw, leaving his throat on fire as if it had gone through hell and back by the time he finishes. Those words hold such a power he’s never encountered, he muses shakily, alive and raging as though they would kill him dead with the last breath that comes with the final word.

All is silent once again.

Too silent.

Success came and went, it seems, without so much as a nod his way, and John wilts as time continues to pass without so much as a sign that he did everything needed to be done for the rite. Perhaps he did not. John’s shoulders slump easily and after what seems like a half an hour that has long since passed, he rises to his feet reluctantly, bends, and picks up a candle, preparing to blow each one out, dissolving any remnants of the night’s dark truth behind. It never happened. He would clean the rest tomorrow. As soon as John inhales deeply however, the flame begins to flutter and flare before his very eyes, beating to the tempo of his own heart, and he stops immediately, nearly dropping the candle. His fingers remember their strength fortunately, and he holds fast, feeling the crawl up his spine that had lurked in the shadows before. John shivers at the unpleasant sensation, like large hands with long fingers creeping up his back and shoulders in every discomforting, violating sense of the gesture. And then he hears it. Or he thinks he hears it, softer than a murmur, barely loud enough to be a whisper, a chilled breeze from between the cliffs overlooking Styx down below. It beckons him to turn his head, wonder where it went as silence follows with its absence.

_Wait… _

John freezes in place.

_Set it down… _

He does so without the slightest bit of hesitation for fear of angering whatever it is that looms behind him at this very moment.

_Silly little human… you forgot something… _

Like a breath falling over him, John feels warms, sickly warm and stumbles over his words to answer, “I… I don’t understand.”

_Remove your clothes… _

John blushes and shudders as that blush invades every inch of his body, pervading like death warmed over straight to his core. It makes him long to lie on the ground and never get up again. Taking the hem of his shirt with trembling fingers, John hastens to lift it over his head, more than certain of the eyes, like blazing coals, trained at the back of his neck. His sweatpants fall below his knees, which he kicks to the side and waits.

…_everything… _

John almost whimpers in response, but he bites his lip instead and hooks his thumbs in the waistline of his underwear. As soon as the offending piece of clothing falls to the floor, the flames of the candles flicker once, somewhat tauntingly and then remain still. Shame wafts over every inch of John’s body, and he hugs himself as if that alone would protect him from what comes next. The feather-like voice, soft as kitten’s breath, chooses a harsher rasp and cutting chuckle.

_No… _

Reluctantly, John drops his hands. The silence stills everything, as silent as film-noir, right before the ever foreboding gunshot.

_What do you want, little human?_

Despite the quivering of his lower lip, John manages a reply, “You know.”

_I would very much enjoy hearing you say it… _

“I want… I want… you.” The shame can knock him over now.

**AND YOU WOULD DARE SUMMON ME, MANSON, THE MARQUIS OF WORMS, PRINCE OF HELL, WITHOUT SO MUCH OF AN OFFERING? DO YOU THINK I WOULD LOOK PAST SUCH DISRESPECT FROM A MOUSE LIKE YOU?**

The words spew from the darkness like sparks of fire, fire from a whip that lashes out with the intent to flay the very skin off of John’s back, and it succeeds as something warm, wet, and sticky slides down his mutilated flesh. John lets out an agonized scream as the weight of the blow knocks him to the floor in a feeble position, pained and shaking.

**They scourged the body of Christ right before they nailed his broken, human form to a piece of wood.**

John’s sobs can hardly be heard over the tone and weight of the demon’s words. This voice is different. Dark as tinted glass with a laugh that rings out like bells of a cathedral on fire, though not as safe from the vicious clap of thunder prior.

**You are not even half as holy. But… **

A hand materializes, drags itself down John’s back, draws out another pitifully pained noise from his lips.

… **your blood will suffice as an offering. Although I would have hoped for a different bodily fluid.**

John can barely bring himself to speak much less ask what he could possibly mean by “a different bodily fluid”. He stays silent aside from his sobs. The demon clicks his tongue, chooses a more sweetly condescending tone.

**Ah, ah, baby. No tears. This is what you wanted. Poor lamb, scared to death. Want me to heal you?**

The hand leaves just as it had appeared, drawing out a weak sigh from John, and he feels it, the mangled flesh coming together like a weaving loom. The presence remains however, flitting in and out of the shadows of his room and circling him like a ravenous vulture. A rumbling growl, almost like the purr of a tiger, resonates from every corner, and the bells start up again darkly.

**Sit up. Look up. Now. Do not test my patience. This is not the same as the last time. **

John obeys without pause, gets up on his knees, hoping it to be a fitting display for this demon. The tears have dried, but the fear remains even more so now that he takes in the manifestation before him. He has seen him before, both in his guise and what could have been considered a form that can most definitely tear him to shreds, a form that, with one look, can melt his eyes down to the sockets, can flay the flesh from his body all the way down to the bone until he is nothing but a meaningless husk devoid of purpose. Trembling violently, John dares to raise his eyes upon the magnificently terrifying creature before him.

Tall and imposing, Manson stands in the furthest corner from John dressed in a pinstripe suit with one hand, swathed in black leather, gripping a sleek, black walking cane. His darkened hair is shorn short and swept to the side, a soft canopy for eyes black as coals and irises as white as spoiled cream. Beneath a proud nose is a smug mouth, black as blood, as the maw of a lion with teeth that could snap John’s jugular in two. And his free hand is raised to that mouth, lapping at John’s blood with a long, thick, skillful tongue. Just as the taste runs past his lips, his calculating expression transforms to one of lust, greed, _hunger_. When he approaches, his boots trample the ground mercilessly much like cloven hooves, and the edge of his cane viciously beckons John to look at him, pressed firmly against his jaw.

**Still as beautiful as the day I took you. **Manson’s mouth curls into a cruel smile, and John’s heart thumps once at the dark look he’s given, though it is not entirely from fear.

**Though I must say, you are far more lovely when you cry. Speak up then. You say you want me? Returned for more, have you? I am surprised you are still standing after our… last encounter.**

The bells ring heavily this time, and Manson waits, waits for John’s shame in saying it, but his voice has left him regrettably, and the demon relishes it, happy to torment him more.

**I could kill you, you know. I could flay you alive, feast on your flesh as I suck the soul right from your body and drag your withered husk back to hell myself. And your desires would have been for nothing. You stand at a crossroads, mouse. Make a deal with me, and I will still require your soul.**

At this moment, Manson bends at the waist, that same cruel smirk still evident on his face.

**And I can guarantee that it won’t be painless. Knowing that, are you still that wanton? **He chuckles. **From the look on your face, it may take less persuasion. **With one hand dragging down John’s face, more condescending than tender, he murmurs, **Soft. I am pleased you came to me and not some other. You’d be nothing more than a stain on the wall. John. I want you all to myself. Would you blaspheme… **John shudders at the tainted voice, at the mention of his own name from those lips, almost too deplorable for his ears, but he cannot stop himself from leaning into the touch. **…with a mouthful of cock? **Already the simple phrase has been warped like an inverted cross, and John finds himself nuzzling into the hand, cold as death, silently begging for that soft touch, the only gentleness he will receive tonight once he gives his answer.

More daring than he assumes of himself yet still with a small, wavering voice, John asks, “What must I do?”

When Manson grins, his teeth are like razors, and John hears the lid of his coffin being nailed shut. His face is so close when he looks him dead in the eye, and John smells his noxiously sweet breath, enough to waft through his nostrils and send him into a trance.

_ **Seal the deal. ** _

The kiss comes before John can ask what he means. There is nothing sweet nor tender about such a kiss; it is meant to defile, an obscene display of control and violation. Nevertheless, John opens his mouth willingly, nearly choking on the tongue that makes its way like a snake down his throat. He writhes and thrashes, hands clutching blindly until his own wrists are trapped in the fists of the demon. Manson makes a deep, dangerous sound crackle from the back of his throat, a warning to not touch him again, and teeth bite down on sore, swollen lips, determined to draw blood. Just when John thinks he’ll pass out if he isn’t released soon, Manson pulls away with a satisfied grunt, and the blood trickles from his mouth in warm streams.

**And I thought that would make you cry. **

He sounds disappointed.

**You intrigue me, mouse. Most deals beg for things that offer years to live before I come to them again. Years to live out their end of the deal until they draw their very last breath. You have mere hours. **

John hears that chuckle again as he nurses his bleeding mouth.

**You must really want me. **

There is a pause.

**The question, regardless, is how. How do you want me? You could have me any way you like. It’s your deal. **The razors glimmer and gleam beneath black maw and candle light. **I am already getting my end of the bargain. **

Once again, John finds himself at a loss for words, much to his dismay and much to the glee of this demon. Manson takes advantage of that with a vicious sneer.

**Oh? You’re leaving it up to me then? Careful. You could regret your decision. I could very well make your last living moments absolutely unbearable. **Manson utters the last word with a snap of his teeth, and John flinches with a small whimper. **I could do so many… **_**terrible, vile **_**things to you, and it wouldn’t matter. It’s all part of the deal, right?**

And just like that, with the snap of his fingers, John finds himself swung upside down and strung up about two feet above the floor. He yelps and watches with wide eyes as Manson saunters toward him, just barely hearing the soft, treacherous _shnng _from the hidden blade that now protrudes from the demon’s cane. Running the very tip of it down his tummy ever so tenderly, Manson speaks again, this time much softer, dangerously soft.

**Could gut you right here. Down the middle. Gut you and fuck the wound. Should cut our time down more than half. **

“Please,” John sobs, although this time he doesn’t know what he is begging for. For his life or to remain completely at the mercy of this creature.

**No**, Manson growls, grabbing a generous handful of John’s blonde, wispy waves and gives it a good, sharp yank. **No, that’s no fun at all, now is it? I would so much rather hear you scream as I rape-fuck your soul right from your body until you are all screamed out. And it should give you the time slot you bargained for. **The chuckle is devious, more than foul. **Hours of playtime, just you and me. **

John swallows a sharp cry, and in his silence, the demon grows bored, releases him, and John finds himself back on the floor, free of any invisible bonds, but imprisoned in the focus of his stare. There is a sudden change in the way Manson gazes at him; he cannot quite place it, but even after all that is said, the softness that was never there in the first place floods his inhuman eyes. No, not softness. Amusement. No demon would dare allow themselves any form of human emotion relatively close to that. Even still, as much as John much prefers to keep his eyes on the floor, as much as he cannot bring himself to look up and gaze back into this creature’s eyes, the edge of the cane tilts his head up anyway, blade gone, retreated back into its confines.

**Still you intrigue me, I cannot deny that. I’ve never met a human like you so willing to throw it all away for-**

Manson stops abruptly, and John does not have to guess to know that he is grinning again. He wipes his nose on his arm, sniffs once, and looks indifferent rather than small and feeble before the demon. Something even more incredibly amusing. “This is what I want,” he murmurs. “Deal?”

**Oh, the time has long since passed for that**, Manson sighs, and John yelps once at the sharp, harsh sensation of his fist in his hair, hauling him up as easily as one would pick up a kitten. This time, John has to look because maybe the candles burn brighter or Manson’s eyes seem to be glowing or his hair has already grown wildly long past his shoulders. The horns are visible, large and thick as John remembers, growing up and curling elegantly like a ram’s. He imagines what they would feel like beneath his palms, in his fists. John gulps, keeps his hands instead closed tightly at his chest, afraid of what he would do if he accidentally touches him again.

**You can. **Manson’s leniency surprises him, as if he can read the very thoughts tumbling about in his head. He is a demon. Of course, he can. **This is part of the deal. I will do as you ask until time is up. **

The suit has been shorn away and in its place, the full height and girth of the creature before him, though without the throbbing, coiling, black appendages from, as he had called it, their “last encounter”. John’s hands suddenly have a mind of their own as they run over tattoos he’s never seen before, intrinsic artwork equally as terrifying as he is. It is an intimate gesture, and occasionally he glances up to search for any pleasure hidden behind those strange black eyes, any sense of satisfaction, that he is in fact, for any reason at all, enjoying this as well.

Manson gives him no time to tell and grabs ahold of John’s wrists, not to deter him, but rather to overpower, to gain back some part of control that the deal would otherwise never give, and John lets him, feels his back hit the floor, smearing chalk, toppling candles. Then he hears those bells, the cathedral burned to ash, and those eyes, those lips are mere centimeters away from his own.

**Is this what you want?**

John tries to kiss him, but Manson moves, just out of reach from his desperate lips, the grin still fairly evident, more mocking.

**Ah, I see. You thought there was some sort of miracle connection, didn’t you? That somehow even I wanted this as well? **The laughter is cruel again. **Aw. Lamb. Well, I suppose you got one thing correct. **John keens at the tongue laving up his concave stomach, the lips mouthing at his chest, the teeth biting into his collarbone, his throat. **Your body is irresistible. Even for me. **Legs nudge John’s thighs apart urgently, and Manson chuckles once he glances down at the display. **Hard already? Cute. I cannot wait to take advantage of that. Open up. Spread those legs nice and wide for me. **

John mewls once and does as he’s told, staring up at the creature looming over him with large eyes, waiting. He feels it first, large and warm and heavy aligning itself with him with the dark hopes of tearing him open, bleed him out, fuck him raw and ragged until it kills him. John almost begs him to just do it. Almost. Instead his small hand reaches for the demon’s, and before he realizes how wanton the gesture is, he’s dragging it to his cock, leaking over his tummy, moaning loudly when those fingers close around it and squeeze.

**You are needy. **

But John does not want him there all night. He dares to move the hand further down until just two fingers prod at his entrance. They plunge in before he can beg for a warning, and John shrieks at the intrusion, tears pricking his eyes at the razor sharp burn and sting. His first thought is to dash those tears away, ashamed to cry in front of this creature again, but he remembers Manson’s gleeful reaction, humors him, moans brokenly and perhaps a little too loudly when those fingers find his spot.

Manson’s voice is husky, breathless and hot when he confesses in eagerness, **I’ll do anything you want if I can just hear you scream. **He shoves those fingers in deeper, dares to introduce a third, and John arches into it with another yelp, allowing the tears to fall, leaving a hot, wet trail behind. The demon sees them, and John sees the teeth, watches him lean forward, closer. For a moment, he thinks he’ll kiss them away. He swallows his disappointment upon feeling his tongue instead.

**I grow tired of this. **Manson sounds raw and angry when he suddenly says it, and John stifles a loud gasp as he positions himself, cock prepared to rip him open as before.

“Wait!” he cries, relieved when the demon halts and eyes him warily, something else hidden within. Annoyance. John says little else as fear pricks his nerves again and sits up on his knees, using his tiny hand to gently push Manson back. It is part of the deal that the creature obeys, but John doesn’t think he would ever get this far without it, only stopping when Manson remains propped on his elbows, waiting expectantly.

His cock stands upright and curved, alien to John, hardly that of a human length. It is much larger, ribbed along the underside, and John swallows at the sight of it, relishing what it would feel like inside of him. Gently, tentatively, he guides his index finger up the side, watches it twitch, hears a grunt from the demon above, and waits. With nothing stopping him, John leans down and softly, wetly licks around the tip. The next sound pleases him; Manson sucks in his breath, and when John coyly glances up, he’s staring, all frustration gone from those inhuman eyes, leaving only curiosity to remain. Not bad, but not exactly what he wants. He tries again, enveloping the tip whole in his mouth, wishing he could stretch his mouth wider as he moves further down. This time, he gets the reaction he’s been waiting for.

Like a snake, Manson’s fist is in his hair again and a soft, breathy “ah” escapes his lips. The fist does not tighten but pushes down, and just like that, John feels his resolve leave him. Each inch weighs heavy on his tongue, down his throat, threatening to engulf his very last breath. John gags and retches, muffled against him, feels his stomach heave, coil in knots, and then he hears it. That same smug, proud, leering voice he only half expected to reach his ears.

**Needy and _daring_. Don’t flatter yourself, angel. If you had wings, I’d pluck every last one just to see you cry on my cock. **

Up and down is the movement of his hand in his hair casually yet firmly and roughly sending John’s head to bob up and down, up and down, ushering more wet, choking sounds from the back of his throat. Soon after, John realizes he’s bored again and feels himself being lifted off his cock, now dripping with saliva and pre-cum.

**Enough. This is tedious. **With one hand remaining in his hair and the other around his throat, Manson yanks John toward him, flush against his chest, and his eyes glitter, the amusement not gone from them just yet. **I would much rather hear you scream instead. **

John does scream for him, long and loud, in painfully pleasured keens with the first thrust inside. It is the first time he’s felt the comfort of this demon’s arms wrapped around his middle and holding him fast against him as he thrusts in once more. The searing pain almost greatly outweighs the pleasure, but John feels the pressure deep in his gut, digs his nails into unfamiliar flesh, and sobs out, screaming the name of the thing he summoned. And each time Manson hears his name, he goes faster, harder, deeper as if each utterance of his name is an order, demanding he continue until satisfaction.

**So tight. I’ve fucked virgins looser than you. **

The tears flow endlessly now, and when Manson looks into the face of the beautiful human he fucks into oblivion, he feels himself getting close, getting harder. It makes him long to force more tears out of those pretty eyes.

With one last cry, more ragged and shaken than the others, John comes, untouched and spills over his chest and Manson’s. Out of the corner of his eye, the bed has caught fire, reaching for the curtains of his window next. It is somewhat fitting, John thinks while writhing in this creature’s arms. The demon watches in awe of it, and he very nearly stops, almost, disappointed in the deepest, darkest parts of his mind that it would end so soon. Something pulls him to keep going however, something that intends for him to finish as well, and he realizes he cannot stop, not yet, not when he could spill everything he has into the pretty human beneath him, fucked relentlessly on his thick cock. Manson glances down wordlessly and realizes what is keeping him from ceasing.

John _likes _it. Writhing and twitching painfully from overstimulation, the corners of his mouth turn up in a small, euphoric smile. The sob-like moan that falls from his lips, a mixture of pleasure and absolute agony is like a sweet symphony to Manson’s ears. He watches as John falls back, barely able to hold on any longer, all strength leaving him and willingly, and his hands move to his hips. In a greedy display of need, the demon growls low and triumphantly deep in his chest as he viciously and erratically fucks John on his cock. The angel’s eyelids flutter, the sweet sound of what seems like he is being strangled escaping the back of his throat. Manson uses that and the slight clenching around his length to get him to come deep inside.

The entire room is ablaze, but John does not get up, does not rush to put out the flames. He does not see why he should anyway, as if any of it matters in the moment. Manson has no interest outside of their circle as well, and in the first gesture of tenderness, John feels himself being laid down against the pentacle again with two fingers stroking a tendril of blonde hair and pushing it out of his face.

**You are exquisite. **

John hums blissfully, the dawning of his final hour not even in the back of his mind.

**I could get used to you. I might not even allow the others to handle you the way I can. **

John’s eyes open. The others. Other demons.

**But it looks like we still have six more hours to play. **

There are those eyes again, as hollow as the chasms of hell, strangely and hauntingly beautiful. All tenderness is gone when John sees him smile.

**My turn?**


	13. John5 and the Sticky Situation! Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some monsters are great multitaskers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As weird as this whole time is for various reasons, I feel like I'm on a roll here. Also consider this a gift for giving me 90 kudos!!! (WOW.) I really appreciate it, thank you so much, guys. 
> 
> If you have arachnophobia like I do, you don't have to read it, BUT it is a lot sweeter than the last chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_Wake up, pretty thing…_

Long fingers, too unfamiliar to be considered human, run through John’s hair tenderly, stroking blonde tendrils with a certain fondness and gentle curiosity. The sweet touch soothes John awake, and he leans into the hand, cracking open his eyes with a soft smile. He very nearly forgot what had led him here in the first place, and when he lays eyes on the terrifying creature before him, face so close to his own, the many eyes blinking at him inquisitively, he almost screams. Swallowing it down as best as he can, John suddenly remembers that he can’t move, arms pinned high above his head and enveloped in thick, sticky webs that allow no room for a struggle whatsoever. Perhaps he should scream after all.

Sensing his wildly growing apprehension, the spider-like beast quickly backs away, the spindly legs of his lower half barely upsetting the great web they are both contained in. His web. John watches warily as those eyes guiltily avert to the side.

_ I have frightened you._

He sounds apologetic, and John notices the way his four arms raise halfway, moving in a gesture that is somehow meant to calm him, that he has no intentions to harm him. It is sweet in an almost awkward way, and John feels his heart begin to beat more evenly as he accepts the situation. Scenes of what happened before he lost consciousness flash through his mind instantly, and he blushes, feeling hot and flushed and knowing that that blush extends over his entire body. The drider seems to notice it too.

_I apologize for using my venom on you,_ he tries again, and John catches the familiar hiss and gravelly drone. He is not as coy as before. _I was worried you would attempt to run away._

The drider hears a huff and looks at John, who lays there staring at him with a somewhat irritated expression on his lovely face, one eyebrow raised and both arms, wrapped in webs, tugging once, twice for obvious effect. Embarrassed, the drider feels as though he could blush as well.

_ Ah… right._

The silence is uncomfortable, and the creature realizes that taking care of a human will be no easy task if he cannot keep it comfortable, make it feel safe.

“I don’t think I would have run away.”

It’s the first time the drider heard John’s voice in a long while, and his head shoots up abruptly to gaze at him, wishing he would repeat what he just said. _You… you wouldn’t have?_ He sounds hopeful, an emotion in his tone not even he recognizes.

John looks thoughtful for a moment and speaks again in that same soft, even voice that continually captivates the creature. “No,” he decides. “I don’t think I would have.”

The drider does not smile, but his eyes brighten at the news. Deep down, it elates him, but he doesn’t want to scare the human further than he already has._ Why would that be?_ he inquires. _I could have done whatever I wanted with you. I could have grown bored of you and just eaten you then and there._

For a moment, John’s breath catches in his throat. He had nearly forgotten just how dangerous this creature is, and he realizes he never thought if there was a chance that this beast would have suddenly thought him tedious and done away with him. And the possibilities remain. He shudders and searches his words carefully this time. Then it dawns on him, and John smiles, grins really, looking smug as he stares into the drider’s many eyes.

“But you didn’t,” he says, sounding more sure of himself than he feels. “You must really like me for some reason.” John would shrug if he could.

The drider is taken aback by the bold statement, but there is truth to it. The little human captivates him immensely in more ways than any other human has done before. And no human has ever really succeeded in holding his interest. They are food to him, of course, a fact probably considered barbaric by their kind, but merely the circle of life to him. They are soft, but this human is softer, and he has never seen that many intricate markings on a being like him than John has. More than his own, the drider mentally notes, taking a quick second to silently admire the artwork splayed in spirals and exquisite calligraphy over his arms and chest. No, this human is different from the others, almost other-worldly, like an angel, and he would hate to clip its wings too soon.

_I suppose I do,_ he says, attempting to sound as resigned as he can and failing miserably once he catches the playful smirk John gives as he looks to the side.

“But you aren’t going to let me go.”

When the drider glances back at him again, the smile remains on John’s face, but the softness seems passed on. It originally had been the intent. After capturing a human this beautiful, he originally had no aim to release him. And after exploring him to his consent, there had been no way he would have anyway. He had wanted to keep him just to hear more of those pretty sounds, knowing he was the cause of them. But now, knowing that this human will not be his next meal, he decides there is no reason to keep him here. Perhaps one reason, but it is not valid enough to hold him hostage forever. For the first time, the drider worries whether or not this pretty human would come to resent him one day.

_Actually, there is nothing keeping you here, so I might as well let you go. I have already decided not to kill you, so I will not hold you against your will._

John nearly breathes a sigh of relief, but he hears the hint of disappointment in the beast’s voice as he moves closer to remove the webs from his wrists. From his four skillful hands, they fall away like nothing.

_Your belongings are over there._ The drider points to the other side of the web and watches as the little human rushes up the web, climbing it like a ladder. He admires his form for a moment but stays where he is, trying not to regret his decision.

“Did you really have to take off my clothes before tying me to your web?” It takes the drider a moment to hear the teasing tone in John’s voice. “Or did you just want to see me naked?”

Again, his words catch the creature off guard so much that he just stares back at him rather dumbly (although John finds it a little cute). Two can play at this little game then. _Oh, I always do that before I feed. Human clothes do not taste good._ He has to stifle a chuckle as the human looks up immediately in the middle of putting on his shirt.

John instantly laughs, though a little nervously. “Funny…” he murmurs, getting up and wobbling a little bit on the web before moving forward.

_ Are you… are you leaving now?_

John glances up at the simple question, and somehow he knows that this creature really hopes he won’t. “Perhaps,” he replies with a minor shrug of his shoulders. “They’re probably wondering where I am. I can’t stay here forever, you know.”

Suddenly the drider looks a little hopeful at his words. _You mean you’d… come back?_

“Sure,” John smiles, “but you’ll have to show me how to get down. I didn’t realize how high up we were.” He surveys the canopy of leaves over the drider’s nest, emanating a sort of green light over them both. For a moment he realizes just how peaceful it is away from everything else, and it seems to pull him to stay for perhaps just a bit longer. Maybe it’s the altitude making him think such things.

_May I…_

John turns, and once again the drider seems at a loss for words.

_May I kiss you? Before you go?_

Perhaps not because, John realizes, he really wants to kiss him too.

Driders kiss just like humans, he finds as he’s wrapped up securely and possessively in the arms of this creature. And here he had assumed the fangs would get in the way. Not so, John thinks, opening his mouth to let him in. They kiss for what seems like hours, and a low rumbling, less like the purr of a kitten and more like a growl, a rather pleased growl, erupts from the beast’s chest, vibrating against his own and sending pleasant shivers up and down his spine. John gets lost in the sensation of his mouth against the drider’s, and one breathy moan escapes his lips. The creature swallows it down and holds him tighter. He does not have to ask if he is allowed to and John does not have to beg him to do it; fluidly, the drider uses all four of his arms to remove every bit of his clothing, and John tries to aid him, raising his arms and stepping out of his pants. He only succeeds in toppling over on his back against the sturdy yet wobbly web.

The drider hovers over him in that instant, all eyes staring into his own with that same adoring quality he always gives him. It is difficult to stare into each of them for long; John finds himself falling into a trance, blood rushing hot to cold and hot again. With one final kiss, the drider makes his way down, lips mouthing at his throat and fangs occasionally grazing his flesh. John trembles at the feel of it and leans his head back, offering him easier access. In response, the drider gives a pleasured hiss, and his hands follow his mouth.

John’s cock is hard against his tummy, so hard that it pulses and throbs with a dull, blissful ache. Just once, he gyrates his hips up, his length just below the creature’s waiting mouth, and whimpers.

_You seem a lot needier than the last time you let me touch you…_

The drider is in awe of his behavior. He has never heard a human beg for something like this from him; they have all only begged for their lives. The way this lovely human looks at him now, eyes large and wanton and pleading with him to do something to make him feel the way he had felt just hours ago, the drider realizes he wants more, to see more, to feel more than he got to feel. Knowing he’s waited too long, the creature sinks his mouth down and receives just what he wanted.

John gasps and whines as a wet warmth he’s felt before engulfs his cock, and he knows he’s going to come from that sooner than he would like. He bucks up once, but the four hands slam down to hold him in place, reaching up to caress and soothe him. In mere minutes, he releases down the beasts throat, who drinks him in eagerly, hands on his hips, swallowing every drop down with ease. Only slightly winded, John raises his head to find the drider contemplating what just happened. After a moment, he speaks, voice dripping with desire.

_I want to see you do that again. May I…?_

John’s own voice wavers as he says, “If you can,” though he doesn’t doubt it.

The drider licks up his shaft once in response, and John flinches, twitching sharply at the small bit of overstimulation. When he opens his eyes, the drider is face to face with him, mere centimeters away, and a hand is on his cheek. _Did I harm you?_ he asks, sounding utterly concerned.

With a small smile, John shakes his head and reaches for that hand against his cheek. The moment he envelopes two fingers in his mouth, he hears the sharp intake of breath from the drider and almost laughs. The beast watches with all eyes wide and curious. It is an intimate gesture, more intimate than a kiss and far more obscene. The human’s eyes flutter up at him, and he sees lust glazed over the irises, lasting even when he pulls his fingers from his mouth. John sits up then and guides those fingers down in between his legs and under. As soon as he finds it, the drider looks at John, then down, then back at John again.

“Slowly… please…” is all he can say, leaning back against the web again.

With those two fingers, the drider massages his entrance gently and slowly, as he had asked, begins to push in. The sound he hears from the human is unlike any noise he’s made before. It is ragged and a bit pained but masked over with euphoria as he slides in deeper.

_So beautiful…_

Letting out a broken moan, John reaches for one of his free hands, interlinking their fingers together. The creature stares at the gesture, even more intimate than the last, and his eyes soften. Being the beast that he is, he prides himself on being an excellent multitasker. With his one hand in his and the other exploring him from the inside (quite skillfully if the human continues to moan that way), he reaches up again to caress his cheek with another while the final hand sneaks down to wrap around his sore cock. His senses suddenly on overdrive, John sits up abruptly, mouth open, jaw slack, and eyebrows furrowed in an expression of desperation. He tries to speak, but his voice is gone aside from his moans and cries. The only word he can manage to mouth is ‘more’.

When he comes for a second time, John spends the next few blissful seconds watching, bleary-eyed, at his drider licking up his seed from his chest.

_One more?_

John’s eyes nearly widen. “C-can you-” He feels himself grow weak-kneed underneath this creature, relishing the thought of if he could.

_I know something that can help_. His drider is upon him in seconds, eyes staring lovingly down at him. _Open your mouth._

John obeys, feeling a hand on his jaw and the drider’s mouth directly above his own. He nearly squeals at the liquid that drips down from his fangs and past his lips. The venom is bitter to the taste as soon as it hits his tongue, but when he swallows it, there is a sweet aftertaste, frothing down his throat. When John tries to sit up, he cannot, but strangely, he does not care. His movements are loose and languid, but the drider holds fast to him, offering one last kiss that matches with the heated, tingling sensation his venom gives his entire body.

Once again, the creature moves down, taking position in between his legs, and John notices the smirk on his face.

_One more then. _

John descends from the lowest tree branch with a small stagger in his step, still feeling the after effects as though he’s been drugged. Technically, he has. Shouldering his pack and adjusting the laces on his boots, he straightens and turns, almost laughing outright at the scene before him. His drider comes down from his nest upside down, prepared to say goodbye.

John approaches him and giggles. “You look like Spiderman.”

_ I don’t understand… _

Shaking his head, John grins and murmurs “forget it” before kissing him.


	14. John5 and the House of 1000 Zombies!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What ya goddamn starin' at me for? Wastin' my fuckin' time! Why don't you pull the stick outta your ass, sit yourself down, and enjoy the first week before ol' Halloween eve. It'll be colder than a witch's tit before long.  
Fuck your mama,  
fuck your sister,  
fuck your grandma,  
AND MOST OF ALL FUCK YOU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally started this at work and finished it at work. And then I celebrated by watching House of 1000 Corpses. How's my Captain Spaulding impression? Lol. Enjoy. Violence, body horror, and soft boys up ahead.

When John comes to, he knows he’s not in Kansas anymore. It’s a different sort of fresh hell to wake up on his side to a cold, damp ground and feel himself go blind to the dreaded memories just before he went out. When he tries to move, his ankles are shackled to the wall, and then he starts to panic.  
He had gone down. He remembers the chase, the snarling, screeching mayhem that overtook Kenny, then Brian, and finally Tim. He could not look at them ripping his friends apart, but somehow their screams of agony echoed and burned in the back of his mind. In his sudden consciousness, he still hears them, especially Tim’s. He had called for John, begged for him, screamed for him.  
Perhaps it had been the fear that kept John running in the opposite direction to what he though was safety. Far, far away until he could no longer hear Tim’s desperate shriek of terror when one of the undead fiends sank its teeth into his shoulder and dragged him away by its slobbering, retching jaws to either be eaten, turned, or left for dead.  
John had prayed fervently that it was the latter. He prayed for a quiet death for Tim away from the damned miscreations and their crazed lust for warm, soft flesh. Prayed he wouldn’t somehow come back to him as something else.  
As John struggles with his restraints, a single tear slides down his cheek, and the guilt returns. He forces himself to sit up, sniffs, wipes his nose with the back of his hand, and takes in his surroundings.  
It looks like something directly out of Frankenstein’s lab though deep in the cavity of the Parisian catacombs, a place for pure insanity. Something, he dreads to know what, drips from the ceiling somewhere, and the sounds of it thuds in his eardrums, as maddening as Chinese water torture.  
Drip, drip, drip…  
Each thud, muddled and cloudy, slowly, so agonizingly slow, clears as John realizes where he is. A warm, unsettling wave washes over him instead, and his heart pounds.  
“So…”  
No.  
“Fresh meat…”  
Fuck.  
He sees the “operating chair”, what is really just a rusty old lawn chair and a worn cushion, while that slippery, snake of a voice continues.  
“You’re awake. That’s good… Now we can begin.”  
A shadow falls over John’s minuscule frame, and he cowers at at the lumbering creature towering above him. Beady red eyes hidden behind aviator goggles glower back at him, and large, seemingly inhuman fists for hands grasp at a long metal stick or rod, raised threateningly at John. As if it dares him to resist. The voice doesn’t belong to this large, malformed creature; all he manages to convey are low grunts and growls that shrink John back up against the wall. He recognizes him as Earl Firefly, the one who saw the devil and set it all ablaze.  
With a pathetic gulp, John finally spies the owner of the voice that speaks from the mouth of hell. And with such a fitting name. Standing by the operating chair, more machine than man is the Doctor Satan, all configured with tubes and screws, more terrifying than Frankenstein’s monster put together. Monster and mad doctor both combined to create the tormentor of man, the unspeakable, the notorious, the abominable, straight from the mouth of hell.  
Even in his fear, the urge to resist rises like bile in his throat, and John, surged with a newfound sense of mindless courage, rushes at the bars that keep him contained. Clutching them for dear life, he screams, half in desperation, half in rage. He screams to drown out the continuous drip of blood, bile, or piss from the ceiling. Earl screams with him, more muffled behind his face covering and raises the rod.  
With each slash at the bars, it sends a horrid electric shock to John that sends him flying back against the wall, chains clanking noisily. Only then, he sorely realizes as he lays in a pained, huddled heap, what it is. John scrambles to sit up, ears ringing from the collision, body hot from the impact, feeling as though every bit of his being has been vaporized from existence. When the fiend raises the cattle prod once more, John turns his head to the side and yells out in anguish. Perhaps he had died and as punishment for leaving Tim, this was hell. Putrid, miserable hell.  
“Now… now…” Doctor Satan wheezed. “Let the pet see what it’s getting…”  
Bleary-eyed, John perked at his voice. He does not mean him. As another voice, less coherent than the doctor’s and more so than Earl’s, reaches John’s ears, he sees an unfamiliar figure seem to crawl his way outside the cage.  
“For… me…?” Gravelly, unfamiliar voice like jumbled radio waves. One metallic hand grasps a bar and a pale human hand grasps another until the face emerges, like the doctor, more machine than man. All except for the eyes.  
John’s own eyes widen, and the pain of his shock nearly leaves like a fragile whisper as he crawls on his tummy to reach the creature staring back at him.  
“For… you…”  
Earl grips whatever blonde hair is left in patches on its head and turns it forcefully to acknowledge the doctor.  
“Two strong legs…?”  
At first, John feels his heart skip a beat, instinctively sliding away from the two horridly mismatched hands that gesture and reach for his fettered limbs.  
“Yes… two… for me…”  
He finally sees it, what this thing drags behind on its own weight, two grisly, poorly bandaged stumps for legs. John’s stomach heaves at the sight, and his pleas fall from his quivering lips in a nonsensical mess of incoherent sputtering.  
“No… n-no! Please! You can’t… can’t!”  
At first, the thing starts, taken aback by his reaction, and John sees those eyes again, far too human to be connected to screws, wires, tubes, the industrial horror that it down is. Two true blue eyes clouded over by pain and familiarity, with the same tufts of blonde hair he used to run his hands through.  
It couldn’t be.  
As quickly as it came, the clouds in its eyes darken in anger, and with a crazed swipe, the metal claws for fingers manage to just barely graze John’s calf. It’s nothing to the second touch of the white hot from the cattle prod that nudges his ribs. John lets out a hardly human screech, overtaking the ragged drone of the thing before him.  
“I… want…!”  
John scrambles over something like “It’s not you! It can’t be you! You’re dead!” or at least he thinks so. He can hardly hear himself or the constant piddle of blood from the ceiling or the thing’s claws scraping against the bars of his cage. It all goes black before his very eyes, and just before he can scream again, the black envelopes him in the only comforting warmth he has known. 

When he wakes, John finds he’s out of the cage but he cannot move. In a panic, he cracks his eyes open and wildly glances from the ceiling to his restrained hands and feet to the monstrous visage of Doctor Satan himself. The latter coolly chuckles as he struggles and condescendingly pats the top of his head in mock care.  
“There… there… it will all be over soon…”  
John begins to cry. “N-no… please!” No one hears the ‘please’, lost in the breath wheezing from his lungs and drowned out by sobs and occasional clicks of metal claws.  
“If you keep moving, I’ll mess up…”  
John chokes back a sob.  
“Now for the anesthesia…”  
“Please!”  
Barely allowed to speak, the mask goes over his mouth and nose and with every panicked breath he takes, he spirals further down in a vision of a blur and foggy, unsettling dream. A hand reaches for John’s, not claws, and, in a haze, he manages to gaze into those cloudy blue eyes right before he lets his hand slip, lets his mind slip, and falls into a cold darkness of a trance filled with fear.  
Only to wake in a daze.  
Doctor Satan reaches for the hacksaw.  
Then dark.  
John’s eyes open to slits, weakly.  
Tries to wiggle his toes.  
Nothing but an itch and he finds himself leaving again.  
What feels like mere minutes startles John to half consciousness. This time he tries wiggling the fingers on his right hand.  
An itch and nothing more, and when he raises it, he wonders so desperately if his mind is playing tricks on him and longs to cry. Darkness meets him again instead, right before blue eyes gaze down at him and two human hands cup his cheeks. 

He dreams of teeth tearing into his flesh and burrowing in deep just to find out what he’s made of.

John opens his eyes, woozy and dazed. He is still in the chair but free to move his limbs, praying that he was only dreaming. His prayers fall on deaf ears as he looks in dismay at the stump of his right arm. When he looks down and raises his thighs, he nearly screams.  
“New pet…?”  
Doctor Satan’s laughter, metallic, breathy, and malicious, rings through the damp, cavernous chamber. Even the skulls that align the ceiling rattle in their bones.  
The creature with the blue eyes ignores the doctor’s wheezing and reaches for John gently. He is weightless now, like a rag doll. Just as John’s strength leaves him, so does his fear, leaving only pity and guilt. Seems the worst has taken him, he thinks in his jumbled mind. Whatever humanity has left him, John still sees it in those eyes. Eyes that are still his own.  
“Ti…” John chokes on his words. “…m…” He attempts to swallow, but his throat is dry. He only stutters out a croak, “’m sorry…”  
Tim’s voice, though changed, comes out as a gentle hum. How they both survived the dreaded lair of Doctor Satan, he can never know for certain. And he would never have allowed them to escape, much less live without the first cut that would change their lives for the worst. Tim had already forgiven John before they found him and brought him back. This is protection, allowing the doctor from hell to mangle him this way.  
This is love.  
“You… sorry now?” But his voice is gentle, tender as he rests his forehead against John’s, unable to kiss him through his mask for fear of frightening him further. Instead he places his fingers from his new hand, the hand that John gave him, against his precious lips, feels him kiss them and runs them through his hair.  
In this horror, John, guilt-ridden, would have offered Tim anything else if he could right the wrong of leaving him to his grisly fate like he did. Somehow he thinks Tim has already forgiven him.  
Despite allowing them to leave, Tim cannot help but wonder the catch of the doctor’s decision. Regardless, he ignores the evil clank of his industrial marionette, rushes past Earl, leering dangerously at them both while fingering with the blade of his axe, and, with John in his arms, makes his way outside to sweet freedom.  
With the coming dawn splatter painting across the sky a garish orange, the desert road stretches ahead of them both, quiet, the first quiet in a long time. Tim begins to hobble down the path with John held securely in his arms until the sound of an old car horn sends him stumbling to a stop.  
“Well, what in the Sam-slammin’-slutty-Sally-Hill?”  
Both wretches blink dumbly at the older man in the automobile pulled to an abrupt stop next to them. With a scruffy, scraggly beard and wild, wide eyes, he looks almost as crazed as the hoard of zombies from back in Satan’s lair.  
“Sweet baby Jesus! A’int you two a sorry fuckin’ mess, huh?”  
Tim stutters with his words, only managing a “We… we…”  
“You, you!” the man drawls back in a thick Texan accent. “Well, it’s no use standin’ there an’ pissin’ ya goddamn pants over it. Hop in! I’ll get ya to wheresever ya sorry fuckers need to be.”  
THE END?


	15. John5 and the Freak from Outer Space! Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aliens figure out what it is that makes humans tick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't a sequel. More of a different story entirely and it took me a week because I just wanted it finished.   
Hope you enjoy.

The world didn’t end the way he thought it would. John knows the panic driven words of War of the Worlds, he has seen Alien probably more times than he can count, and it just was not how he or any of the rest had expected it to go.   
Peaceful.   
Almost.  
It was almost a peaceful surrender.   
The human race saw the descent, the signs, and the emergence of something beyond the simple capacity of their imagination and merely gave up.   
The year was 2030 and two thirds of the human population no longer existed. It had not been because of a devastating invasion from an unknown force of extraterrestrial phenomenon; rather, war torn and plague ridden, many succumbed to the illness many had thought a hoax and a perpetual nuclear winter forged from the final test of autocracy. They had pressed the button and failed to stop and think about whether or not they should have.   
John, along with the rest of the human stragglers, careen far from their galaxy with a large fleet of space interlopers, vigorously ecstatic about their latest discovery. Earth floats on, a mere rock of poisoned gases and continually rising temperatures nearly as hot as the hell planet herself, Venus. John cannot even see it anymore, already coming to terms with abandoning the only home he has ever known as it orbits closer and closer to a sun that he will never see again. He cannot deny the small sadness he felt leaving it. It had been a hopeless cause, attempting to save a world that clearly did not want to be saved. Other days his sadness and regret turns to bitter ash in his mouth.  
Perhaps, it was a fitting end after all.   
Others like him that knew they never stood a chance against an other worldly fleet went willingly. Those that resisted were calmly subdued and taken away, never to be seen again. There was something menacing about that, a calm time amidst chaos that never seemed to faze them, the interlopers as it was whispered through the quivering masses. John never knew what became of the rest of the world, but to him, the rest of the United States had dwindled down to less than a quarter of the total population. A few thousand. He found, as they were escorted into the pods of the ships, that he was shocked to remain among them, alive, afraid, and painfully unaware.   
Even now, he still is.   
He is alive. Billions are dead.   
Deep inside the ship is like the bowels of a bloated cadaver, coiling and winding with pipes and intricate carvings that twist and swirl and surge like intestines. John, unrestrained like the rest, walks between two of the interlopers as he calls them and shudders beneath the grim interior. The beings, with skin like black latex and sharp talons like a predatory bird’s, almost glide in their steps, mixing with the ship’s interior in a sort of camouflage. Some of the murals along the walls bleed amidst the gutted pipes as if affected and aware of the change in the atmosphere, the presence of a weaker, simpler, more fragile race. As if the whole ship knows they are here.  
With each step he takes, John vividly becomes aware that he is nearly the only one left, the last human specimen to be taken to a new method of survival or rather an imminent but perhaps merciful death. He does not know which would be more favorable. If they intend to help or to euthanize, John wonders if there are any cons to the latter. If indeed the latter, John almost snickers to himself ruefully at a once familiar phrase.   
Like lambs being led to the slaughter.   
As militant as they appear, both creatures come to a perfect, abrupt stop that John nearly stumbles and looks at both of their sleek, armored figures quizzically. Before them is a small, pod-like chamber, oddly phallic in shape and resembling that of a steel coffin, ominous to the eyes. John wonders if that is truly what it is, meant for him, for his body in any case.   
The door opens like a file cabinet turned on its side, filing upwards towards the ceiling and leading into an even smaller space. Like a metal can. A sardine can. Before John can object or even come to terms with it, he is shoved forward, grabbed by both arms, and turned around to face the exit. He opens his mouth to speak but pauses, dumbfounded as he listens to them converse to one another in their garbled exchange of sighs, hisses, and clicks. John realizes that this is the first time he has even heard them speak. They gesture to each other, and in one split second, one faces him and advances, now attempting to communicate, interrogate, or demand something from him. Suddenly it seems vaguely threatening, and John takes a stumbling step back.   
“I don’t- don’t understand,” he begins, bringing up his hands in self-defense. The other behind the first lets out a stuttered hiss. Awfully sounds like laughter. With reflexes like a snake, the first swipes at his raised hands and raises them higher. Fluidly, effortlessly, John finds himself backed against the wall and unable to move. Whether from his own apprehension or some unknown, invisible force, he does not know. Just as soon as he tries to move away, he realizes how futile his efforts are.   
Wrapped around both of his wrists and encircled further down his forearms in a double spiral are thin bands stronger than steel, keeping him pinned where he stands. John panics. He hates that his human survival instincts overpower his stoic existentialism, but at these moments, where the assumption of certain death appears inevitable, the fight or flight in the back of his brain switches on instantly.   
“Wait…” He stops. His throat is dry; his voice has left him, barely coming out in rasps. It is difficult to swallow, but John forces it down and tries again. “Wait. We… we came peacefully. We surrendered. You don’t-” His breath hitches as two clawed, four-fingered appendages rip his shirt down the middle. Hardly any sound, they do so as easily as slicing through warm butter. John reddens, and his heartbeat picks up as he is half-exposed before these beings.   
At first, they stare. Just stare. The black gleam of their eyes follows his every move, the twitch of his wrists and fingers, the rise and fall of his tattooed chest. They puzzle over the markings, cocking their heads and chattering to each other avidly now. A claw raises his chin, but he ducks away. It continues down his neck, however, tapping at the base of his throat, a gesture that forces him to suck in a sharp breath. The unorthodox inspection moves forward unfazed, stopping at his heaving chest, eyes seeming to marvel at the unusual movement. A palm hovers over his heart, and more talking ensues just as avid as before, combinations of loud hisses and clicks followed by a growl from one.   
If it can be called a growl. To John it almost sounds like nails tapping repeatedly on a table though lower in pitch.  
Another palm, hot as a summer’s day after a storm, rests on the other side of his chest as if searching for another thing that beats as well. Finding none, the creature before him moves those palms and claws down his front, coming to rest against his tummy. Another growl, somewhat amused with the contracting and expanding of his abdomen. It makes John shiver and tremble more than he already is. As the razor-like claws graze his flesh, he startles and squeezes his eyes shut.   
Nothing.   
Nothing but a rush of cool air to his lower half now, and John’s eyes immediately flash open and glance down at the spectacle of his pants on the floor. More blood rushes to his face at his exposure, and he knows he is turning a deeper shade of red by the second.   
One of them makes an obnoxiously amused noise, one that makes him whimper, his own noise he wishes he could smother with both hands. He does not mean to be half hard in front of these abnormal beings; John had not expected to be handled so carefully, so delicately, and watched so closely. As frightened as it makes him, his cock unfortunately tells a different story.   
“…you don’t have to do this,” he finishes, but it comes out soft, and if they do hear his plea, they ignore it.   
A click and a sigh.   
A response. Almost mocking.   
The eyes that bore into his own are as hot as coals. John gulps, and the creature, pleased, rakes those black eyes over his quivering body one final time before backing out, leaving John naked, cold, and more than a little violated in what can now be called his cell.

Time stretches on, barely existing in the limitless void far, far beyond the reaches of the Milky Way.   
Not that John can recount the days that would have slipped by in his metal cage. Perhaps minutes, hours, or even days- he can hardly tell anymore- gas makes its way through, heavy and thick and dropping gently into a subspace more temporary but just as deep as cryostasis. When he wakes, weary and far more docile than the last, all is the same.   
Perhaps it is their intention to sift out every bit of his consciousness until all that is left is the animal, the mammal, a mindless creature.   
Each time, he fights it a little less. 

John’s cell opens like delicate flower petals floating up and out of sight, and he wakes, shivering from the cold that meets him first.   
The second are his inspectors. He remembers them and shrinks back as far as he can into the wall. Not far enough, and even the slightest movement clouds his vision, makes him swoon. Their language is the first thing he hears, but their tone sounds almost irritated as they move in on him. The bands at his wrists revert back into the wall, and suddenly unfamiliar with the concept of gravity, John’s body collapses and his brain does little else to stop it. Fresh pain washes over him, but the beings hoist him up immediately after and force him on his feet. A terse growl, something like an order follows. Donned in a white gown, much like a hospital gown, John takes a step.   
Dragged down the endless corridors, that, in his delirium, froth and bleed and surge greater than before, John hears his heart pound in his ears, heard and fast as though it will explode any moment. His vision blurs, blackens, dots speckling out of his view. Wondering if seconds, minutes have passed, John is halted abruptly and shoved forward, colliding clumsily into another before him.   
It takes a good five seconds for his vision to clear, and then, clutching their shoulders mindlessly, John looks hazily up at a man who stares hard right back. He mumbles an apology, hardly coherent and steps back, realizing he is in a line of other humans all dressed the same way and waiting feverishly and nervously for their fate.   
The man, at least a foot taller than him put together, softens briefly and then glances ahead. “Don’t say too much or they’ll send you back just to see how much of that shit they pump into us you can withstand.” A short pause. “You look pretty green anyway. You’ll get used to it.”  
“What does it do? Why do they do it to us?”  
The man shrugs. “We’d do the very same to them if we wanted to figure out their limits as well. Curiosity. In the name of science and discovery.” He sounds bitter. “Or maybe it’s just to keep us docile.”  
John smiles at that. He doesn’t know why. He feels it has been ages since he has had real human interaction. “My name’s John.”  
“Brian,” the lanky giant responds.   
Silence. Both humans watch one of Them approach. This one looks much different than the others, decked in sleek armor but not in the militant sort. More clinical, carrying itself with ease, languidly but proudly. John wonders if this is what they look like underneath all their protective garb, skin a pasty white, eyes glowing red, not black. Even their hands have no claws. All for threat. All for show. This is their real form underneath a protective layer.   
“That’s Omega,” Brian rasps.   
“Who?”  
“Well, I call them that anyway,” he continues almost sheepishly. “They remind me of a character I created once.” Brian turns, raises the sleeve of his right arm, and along with the rest of his tattoos, shows John a small portrait of what looks exactly like the creature in the shape of the greek symbol, Omega.   
“Uncanny,” John mumbles, feeling sick again.   
“You’re not gonna hurl, are you?” Brian warns in a harsh whisper. “Because then you would really be out and I don’t know what they intend to do with the scraps.”  
John gulps, manages to shake his head. “Omega” is closer now.  
They approach Brian first, almost gliding effortlessly toward him. Their red eyes gleam seemingly brighter as if telepathically testing him, saying nothing, only staring, only studying the specimen. Brian straightens, stares back just as hard until after a full minute, Omega holds out their hand, open palm, and in it, a tiny pill.   
Brian hesitates for a good second, but the creature, much taller than him, remains, still as a statue, eyes glowing. Finally, Brian relents, takes the pill, raises it to his lips, and waits. A hiss in the affirmative.   
As soon as the strange, ethereal being lays eyes on John next, he feels ten times too small. Bile rises to his throat, but he fights it down desperately. This time, the wait takes longer as if Omega is just waiting for him to fail. He ponders if death or wherever is next for the unworthy is better than what potentially lies ahead of him should he take a pill as well. Before he decides, Omega chooses for him and holds out the tiny white capsule.   
It slides down John’s throat with ease, and he expects eggs to pour out of his eyes or acid to bubble in his stomach. Nothing happens.   
“You were chosen,” Brian whispers when Omega walks away. “Congratulations. You might just survive.” 

John doesn’t see Brian for the rest of the time (he doesn’t know whether to call it day or night), but perhaps he will “survive” as the latter had stated. Whatever the pill was given to him, it invigorates him, but it certainly does not make him any less uncomfortable in the mental sense.   
They move him to a different wing of the ship, and John guesses he’s upgraded. They do not restrain him this time, and on this level, the interior does not look like a horror piece by Giger. By the time they reach a larger enclosed hub, he is not so sure of his prospects.   
Omega turns to face him, serene as ever, armor glimmering in the luminescent lights above. With an authoritative hiss and click, the two inspectors remove his gown with ease and much to his dismay. John instinctively covers his naked groin and shivers, wondering if this is what surviving meant.   
“The least you can do it try to communicate what you are going to do to me,” John mutters under his breath as the being approaches.   
When he glances up tentatively, Omega gazes at him with something of an amused gleam in those strange eyes, and John stares back, confused.   
“Can you…” he begins, “…understand me?”  
Nothing in the affirmative or the negative. The creature only continues to stare and raises one of their hands toward his head. John debates ducking but remains frozen in place just as the hand rests at the top of his head. Long, slender fingers that slightly bulge at the tips run through his soft hair, and red eyes watch as they wisp and settle against his forehead. The gesture is sudden and tender, and John feels his cheeks warm. Fingers trace from his temples next down to his eyelids, over his nose, and stopping at his lips. Each touch leaves sparks that tingle down his spine, but he waits, hoping it’s just another inspection and nothing more. Omega stays gentle with him but procedural. John suddenly remembers Brian’s words from earlier.   
Curiosity.  
He wonders what he looks like to them. He wonders if any of the others have received similar treatment.   
The finger at his lips applies pressure, waiting. Breaking from his trance, John obliges though reluctant. Easily, the finger slides in with the same procedural curiosity. It strokes over his tongue, glosses over his teeth. Until it moves further back.   
John retches and breaks away, flailing back until held firmly by the others. Omega looks thoughtful, more than interested by now but steps back and waits. When he composes himself, those fingers, wet with his spit, slide down his throat and stop at his chest. John shivers at the sensation, whimpers as they brush over his nipples, starts when they freeze in place. He realizes Omega heard him, and immediately regrets everything.   
Those red eyes narrow, and they do it again, just a gentle brush of the fingertips over the soft, sensitive flesh. Squeezing his eyes shut, John stiffens, seemingly giving Omega what they want.   
Results.

The little human struggles futilely against the restraints atop the operating rack. On any normal schedule, this would be the point of removing their first protective suit. Humans are a fragile race.  
As soon as Omega had made the first cut on their very first specimen, began to flay the first layer from their bodies, the poor thing promptly expired from shock. What noises they had made. Omega would not make the same mistake again.   
They discovered, with the terminated specimen, that these humans were made of an inner skeleton, complete with compartments, cavities, and other workings that kept them alive. The first coat was nothing more than a protective covering, however protective to keep the liquids flowing and everything contained. Not very protective in Omega’s own opinion. Every specimen that passed through their hub all looked and acted the same; terrified and ordinary. Nothing much to look at. Mere quivering husks, easily perishable.   
Omega hopes there is something different with this one. It has the same structure as the last male but more minuscule in the frame, and a lot more self made markings. The small mane at its head is much more softer and longer than the last one as well, Omega mentally notes. It had been a rather unconventional delicacy to feel something that soft run through their fingers. Its body alone is appealing to behold, and Omega finds an unexpected anticipation in figuring out just how it works.   
The human’s voice breaks through again, a structured noise, a soft tenor, but it sounds strained and bothered, erratically stuttered and shuddered. Omega wonders if this is how it begs. In an uncertain attempt to calm it, they lift their hand and lay it gently on the top of its head. Surprisingly, the noise quiets, and Omega decides that now is the time to begin.   
“Relax,” they instruct it, and for a moment, the creature looks as if it is listening, really listening, as if it can almost understand them. Still, its chest rises and falls at a rate that makes it look as if it will combust. Omega tries again, this time raising a hand and moving it in a languid up and down gesture. Slowly, it responds favorably, chest rising and falling more evenly, eyes following them everywhere.   
Wary.   
That’s a start.   
Omega’s eyes wander from its chest now and focus more on what hangs between its lower limbs. The little human follows their gaze and shifts restlessly by the heat of their stare. Watching it press its lips together and its pale visage redden drastically, Omega feels a twinge of amusement and satisfaction. This is its reaction from their eyes alone; Omega wonders what this intriguing little thing would do if they touched it.   
Rather than waste time pondering the possibilities, they do so without hesitation but carefully as not to frighten the specimen.   
Just one finger smoothing down the shaft that has already visibly gotten bigger. Omega notes the flushed change in color, its attention to their touch, an interesting physical reaction for a human’s sex organ. Omega wonders if their eyes watching its every move were the cause. Just one touch for effect. The effects are substantial.   
Instantly, they watch the muscles in each of its limbs tighten, the stomach grows taut, the mouth part at the touch. What comes out of it is a sound much like the whimper they heard before, seemingly pained but somehow no such resistance to it. Merely the body’s response to a touch, a test. It’s a strangely beautiful sound.   
The human watches expectantly now, head raised, eyes wide and staring at Omega’s hands. As if waiting. Waiting for more.   
They do it again, this time rubbing over the head and then gliding back down to the base. The head is wet with a thick substance, thicker than water, a fluid this race needs to survive. Intrigued by how it comes in strands along their fingers, Omega raises them, studying it intensely.   
“Non-toxic…” they muse, ignoring the human’s trembling to the sound of their voice. They glance back down at the appendage, now larger, thicker, raised slightly. “Intriguing response to my touch.” With their palm and smearing the rest of the substance along with it, they smooth up the shaft, pleased with the sharp inhale the specimen makes. Omega glances at its face just to check; its eyes are closed, lips parted, head inclined to the side, seemingly accepting of what it must endure. Something else passes over its face.  
Pleasure.  
At the first buck of its hips, Omega realizes it expects more of this pleasure. Turning to the guards watching avidly, they order, “Bring in the next specimen.”

“You mind filling me in, John?” Brian glances warily at the creatures, finally laying eyes on Omega.   
John, released from the restraints, sits up dazed and maybe still slightly half-hard. “I’m okay…” he slurs, eyeing Omega as well. When he tries to get up, a hiss and sigh from them keeps him where he is, like barking an order. “Why…” He never gets to finish as Brian is shoved forward, nearly colliding into him against the rack and made to stay there. When both of their naked bodies meet, John cannot help the inevitable blush. Somehow he gets the hint of what exactly Omega intends for them.   
The latter watches closely, red eyes piercing like hot coals into their exposed flesh.   
Even Brian looks disconcerted when John looks up at him.  
“I think…”  
The former blinks down at him, and suddenly John is at a loss for words. He’s still foggy from his earlier encounter.   
“I think… they want us to fuck.”  
Brian stares. “If they want to breed us,” he answers sardonically, “then they are out of luck without a female.”   
“I don’t think it’s that,” John stammers, reddening furiously now. “This is strictly carnal.”  
“Oh.” Now it is Brian’s turn to look embarrassed. “Have you…?”  
John shrugs. “You?”  
“Once or twice,” Brian mumbles. “Won’t it hurt without…”  
“Jeez,” John scoffs, “you sure are quick to assume I’d bottom.”  
Brian chuckles but he isn’t smiling as the inspectors back away from them both. “I think it’s already been decided.” For the first time since he is forced on John, he absentmindedly yet tenderly brushes a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. John swallows, looks back at Omega, and realizes the situation. The gesture is sweet; he almost leans into it. “Besides,” Brian continues, “you’re cute. I don’t mind if you don’t.”  
Forward.   
Not like they have much of a choice. John silently agrees, though he doesn’t say aloud. He feels hands on him, one tentatively resting on his hip, the other softly against his throat. It makes his heart quicken, the back of his neck go from hot to cold in an eerily pleasant sensation. Despite the eyes from the others, John feels safe beneath Brian’s gaze. So he nods.   
The kiss is hesitant and tentative, searching. Brian is testing the waters, and John responds with more pressure, amazed at his own eagerness. The world had ended. And now after a long while of wondering whether he would ever hold someone’s hand again, he can be intimate. John sighs into the kiss, runs a hand up Brian’s thigh; the other meets the gentle hand at his throat, slides down, grips the wrist possessively. He hears Brian’s soft breaths, warmth against his flesh and trembles. When they finally break away, John’s heart pounds freely now, his lips wet and raw from the treatment, his expression debauched. With one glance at John, Brian almost looks triumphant. He glances down now, eyes glittering.   
Wrapping one hand around John’s cock, Brian gives a small smile at the sharp intake of breath and steadily begins pumping up and down. With each stroke, John grows weaker, more pliant, and leans back to rest against his elbows. He turns to look at Omega, but two fingers move him back by his chin to face Brian. The latter’s eyes are hazy, and he wets his lips. John notices a small mark where a lip ring would have been.  
“All the way,” Brian instructs, voice husky, and John complies. He’ll do anything now if Brian keeps doing that to his cock. He watches Brian spit into his hand, feels his heart skip, hears a soft hiss from the other end of the chamber. Omega watches even more intently now, eyes wide, body leaning forward as to not miss a thing. The slick palm around his cock bring’s John’s focus back to Brian. “Just keep looking at me,” he soothes under his breath.  
Something else other than his hand rubs against John’s now fully erect dick, and when he looks down, his eyes widen. The friction of both their hardened lengths grinding against one another sends embers and sparks crackling deep in the pit of John’s gut, and he moans. His eyes very nearly roll back when Brian’s lips meet the side of his neck, and more sweet sounds spill from his lips.   
“Keep doing that,” Brian shudders, breaking from his neck to lave his tongue over his nipple. John gives a small cry when he envelopes it with his warm mouth. “Angel… moan for me…” John obliges, and the sparks become sparklers, small fireworks. When Brian moves to the other nipple and offers the same treatment, the sparks intensify. Hands smooth up his thighs, lift his legs, knees bent. Fingers move to prod at his mouth, and he opens obediently.   
“Good boy,” Brian groans breathlessly and John reels.   
Slick fingers rub teasingly at his hole while eyes stare deep into his own. One pushes in slowly, and John slowly sucks in a breath. With a nod for permission, John offers a nod of reassurance and the finger pushes in deeper. Then another. He feels pressure and a slight sting that grows to a dull burn, moans his dreamy approval. Feels good. Feels familiar. Brian works him open with ease, lips mouthing at his jaw, fingers reaching to rub against him and make him clench and keen.   
Then he pulls them out with a wicked, knowing smile, slinks down, gets on his knees. John watches him carefully, through hazy eyes glazed over in lust and need, chest heaving. He promptly whimpers as Brian spits at his entrance, opens his mouth in a silent whine at the warm, wet tongue licking into him eagerly. A rather pleased-sounding growl draws John’s attention to Omega, and he reddens at the audience. The being’s gaze is calm yet calculating, reserved but intent. Almost hungry. John doesn’t doubt the desire they feel, wonders if it is an unorthodox feeling to them.   
Then Brian licks into him again with a breathy moan, and John keens. 

Perhaps it is the gas that has John smiling dumbly at the delicious pain in his ass.   
Satisfied with the results, Omega had ordered he be escorted back to his cell, but John had seen the intense hunger in those piercing eyes. They string him up like last time, and in his solitude, John can still smell Brian, the scent of another human being. The smile almost fades when he wonders if he will ever see him again. In this new reality, he regrettably knows he never will.   
The door opens like a flower, and John wakens from the dream.

“Perhaps unorthodox to instigate my presence in my own practice but…” Omega shuts off the gas and closes the door. “It’s my turn for you.”  
The human, in its daze, looks startled for a split second, as if sizing them up, prey wary of the predator’s motives. It offers the same frightened expression as when it lay strapped for operation and study, but those motives are passed and the results are more than fruitful. Omega continues to watch its face for any change because they know and understand that its countenance was one of bliss rather than fear in the midst of the carnal practice. They intend to keep it as such if they hope to achieve those same results.   
Slowly, it calms, palms opening and fingers flexing, waiting. Its demeanor smooths over, watching closely, so Omega steps forward, fingers tingling just to touch it. 

John leans into the palm at his cheek, the most tender indication they have offered since the hand to his head. He acknowledges that Omega means him no harm simply by his physical response, and when he feels the hand against his tummy, against his chest, he responds to that too, arches his back into the touch with a soft sigh.   
Omega purrs at his reaction, a sound he never expected from this creature. They move in closer, pressed up against his body, flesh to flesh, alien and unfamiliar but heated and feverish.   
Fingers search his mouth, thumb at his lips. Omega’s mouth opens, reveals a thick, forked tongue, which laves up the side of his neck, past his cheek.   
John leans back, eyelids fluttering from the remnants of the gas, mouth open as well in a silent plea for more.   
Something opens against his groin, wet and slick, wraps eagerly around his aching cock, and he knows it is not Omega’s hands. John gives a stuttered sigh forced into a gasp just when another foreign appendage reaches up behind and between his legs.

Omega hisses through their teeth when they first sink in. The human is loose enough from last time and sliding into it is like nothing they have ever felt. It clenches around them, whines when they push in further, legs tightening around their torso, pulsing and pulling them closer. Omega obliges, ruts up once, studies the way the human’s eyes blink rapidly at the welcome intrusion. Its mouth opens, forms sounds they do not understand but recognize as urgent pleas. The sounds themselves are beautiful to hear.   
The human’s length throbs within their clutch. 

When John comes, the heat courses through him and rocks him to spasms and cries. Blinded by white, he feels himself fall back against the wall behind him and thinks he blacked out. Pressure deep inside him though, keeps him conscious, fluidly, molded and fused to this creature as they hold him possessively. John stiffens at the coming pain beyond the pleasure and whimpers, tightening around Omega’s waist and waiting for them to finish.   
The other worldly being says something in their language, strains it, and their thrusts grow sloppy and slower. John braces himself and feels he could come again if the thing inside him keeps curling against his insides like that. A sensation he has never felt. 

Omega stares in satisfaction as their release slides down the human’s shaking legs. Reeling with new ideas, they wait until it calms and raise its head with one finger.   
“You will be mine from now on.”  
The human blinks up at them like a domesticated pet.   
“I have so much more to try with you.”


	16. JOHN5, THE (SEXY) FRIENDLY GHOST!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is this irresistible creature who has an insatiable lust for the dead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by someone who wishes to remain anonymous. :) I hope you like it and sorry it took so long!
> 
> Well, this was fun but this, for the time being, will be the final monster story. I really enjoyed writing these for you all and loved the endless amount of support I received. Which one was your favorite? Werewolf boyfriend Jim? The creature that is so obviously the embodiment of Tim Skold? How about demon Manson or vampire Trent? Let me know in the comments below. :) Perhaps I'll open this back up next Halloween, but for now, the spooks have come to an end so recommend these to a friend, leave a kudo, comment, and enjoy reading.
> 
> Much love.

When Trent sees the house, he does not think much of it, except noting the convenient cost out of the blue. It is perfect, too perfect almost for a house of that size with its ornate, Victorian grandeur. 

"I wonder if it's haunted," Brian remarks, teasing, once they have parked. 

Trent feigns laughter as he gets out of the car. "Funny. I'd rather not experience another 'haunting in Connecticut'."

Brian grabs a box. "Hoax," he murmurs under his breath. 

"It was real and you know it!" Trent shoots back with an accusing finger. "Don't be bringing any bad energy into my new home."

"Says the guy who decorates his entire living space with fake skulls and scented candles," Brian chuckles, setting down a larger box on the wooden porch and coming to stand next to his best friend. "Don't be so dramatic."

"Hey, don't be such a skeptic." Trent glances up at the top rows of old windows peering down at him curiously. "Even if it is haunted, I'm scarier than anything lurking around in there."

Brian laughs once, ruffles his shaggy, dark hair much to his dismay. "Okay, Trent. Just be happy there were no cult murders that occurred here. Even for such a cliche location. Old house in the middle of the woods at the bottom of a mountain?"

Trent stares wistfully up at the house. It winks back at him, paramount against dark, looming evergreens, and he finally feels like he is home. 

Ghosts or not. 

  


The Cure blasts clearly through the nooks and corners and corridors, stretching past a spacious kitchen filled with open and half-open boxes and reaching Trent's ears in a furnished living area. He stands carefully atop a short ladder against the wall and hums gaily to the familiar, beloved tune as he presses spackling paste into the cracks. Nothing a fresh coat of paint couldn't fix, he thinks, nearly wiping a large smudge across his forehead. Ripped pieces of old wallpaper lay in heaps on the floor from one part of the room, and an attempt at another wall remains temporarily abandoned. Robert sings of running to far off spaces with the one he loves, the one who reminds him of heaven, and Trent, for the first time in a long time, feels a weight leave his chest. Just working on this wall in front of him. He feels light as air.

When Trent takes a step down and back to look at his progress however, he feels a little discouraged. "This is going to be more work than I thought," he mumbles under his breath.

Something drops, and Trent hears it roll under the coffee table. He sighs. If he does not retrieve whatever it is now, he will never see it again. Getting down on his hands and knees, Trent reaches for the loan screw driver, just about has it in his hands when he hears the creak, like the sound of someone stepping down onto the hardwood floor. He only has seconds to roll out of the way just as the ladder comes crashing down, barely grazing him. 

Trent snaps his head in the direction of where it lays now in are, heart thumping uncontrollably. "Holy shit..."

Static buzzes in his ears for a brief second before abruptly cutting out like a needle on a record and The Cure leaves with it. 

_Who is this irresistible creature who has an insatiable lust for the dead?_  


Rob Zombie blares from the speakers, so loud that it shocks Trent to attention and towards the open space of the kitchen. Brows furrowed, he gets to his feet though shaky from his last encounter. 

"Brian?"

No response.

"Brian, did you change the music?"

The music only grows louder with each step he takes, static crumbling around it and crackling in his ears. And with each step taken, the music only grows more and more distant as if pulling him in closer and closer. The furrow in his brow deepens, but Trent continues down the hall towards the kitchen, wishing for his ears to pop. Perhaps it is the altitude. He is closer to the mountains now, and Trent recalls the cooler, thinning air the drive up. Much like how it feels now, like a small bubble or shield hovering over him, depriving him of any auditory sense. It still does not explain the abrupt change in music. 

_...on the devil's... wing-_  


Just when Trent reaches the radio, resting perfectly upright on the counter, the music instantly cuts out, leaving the entire area in silence. Trent picks it up, adjusts the antennae, even tries shaking it. Nothing. Completely dead. 

"Last box!" Brian calls, bursting through the door and very nearly giving Trent heart palpitations. 

Sucking in a sharp breath and feeling as though he jumped five feet into the air, Trent whirls around, clutching his chest. "Don't-" He calms instantly after and offers Brian a cursory glance. "...fucking do that," he finishes.

"Well," Brian grins, setting down the box and kicking the door shut, "house getting to you already, huh?"

"Shut up," Trent mumbles back.

"Why'd you turn the music off?"

"I _didn't_," Trent replies defensively.

There's silence, and Brian frowns, looks down the hall past Trent's shoulder and then back to Trent. His eyes show confusion, and Trent mentally braces himself for what he expects. He assumes correctly at the snicker in response. 

"Man," Brian shakes his head, "real smooth. I know I'm a skeptic but this is a whole other-"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Trent sighs. "I'm serious. The radio cut to a completely different channel or something and now... nothing."

The laughter remains in Brian's eyes but the smile on his face seems passed on. He picks up the radio, fumbles with the antennae, and then gives up. "Maybe it is just broken."

"Maybe," Trent agrees, but he isn't so sure. So he says it again just to reassure himself. "Maybe..."

  


Trent lets himself fall against the couch with a large sigh and takes in the finished product. With his living room looking more like a studio than an abandoned drug den, he feels more at ease, more at home; he almost forgets the little incident from earlier. Not that he can just call it an incident. There is a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why the radio had suddenly cut out like that. Trent silently reminds himself of where he is, far away from the nearest gas station, even a house. The last house he had seen on the drive up was probably five miles away. Perhaps not as far as he thinks but far from what he is used to.

For a moment, it is hard to stomach, and he wonders if he just made the worst decision of his life. Up alone by the mountains and far from any civilization he knows. If he was ever in trouble. 

Trent shifts in his seat and shudders the thought away. It is nothing. There is nothing up here but him and the occasional source of wildlife. Even if that may be true, he still cannot shake the feeling of static in his brain, in his breath, in his ears, all around. How the air had suddenly dissipated but thickened at the same time in his lungs. How, as the static cracked in his ears, he could barely breathe but somehow remained cognizant as the music had flooded through his senses. Something about the atmosphere had changed; perhaps Robin could explain the radio, but he could not explain that. Trent slumps further in his seat, fingers drumming restlessly on the armrests now. 

It is quiet. 

Too quiet.

Trent almost wishes Brian had stayed, but his pride had gotten in the way of actually asking him to at least spend one night just to help him mentally settle in. Not that Trent is scared of being alone; most of the time, he prefers it, the natural introvert, but he would be lying if he says he isn't bothered by the inevitable silence of a quiet house where the only sounds are creaks of the floorboards, owls, and the occasional ghoulish scream of a fisher cat. 

"Nope," he mutters softly under his breath and rises from the couch. 

A few feet away stands his grand, freshly polished and delicately placed by the large window. Trent brushes his fingers tenderly over the ivory keys and then promptly sits on the bench, familiar with the position from every classical piano recital he has ever attended. Thumb presses B two octaves below middle C. Middle finger presses E. With his left hand, pinky presses low C, thumb presses G. Both hands, slowly playing in a mantra of sound. Over and over like soft breaths, in and out, in and out. It is slow, deliberate, and as the notes breathe to life from his fingers, he wonders if he can actually hear that breath, faint as a whisper in his ear. Trent finishes, entranced form the music, his own breaths even and peaceful, barely a thought of before in the back of his mind. 

When he opens his eyes, the breath softly hisses in his ear, enough of a cool breeze to have Trent spinning around in his seat to look. Not just cool. Cold. The window isn't open, but perhaps somewhere there is a draft. Just a draft, he repeats over and over in his mind and maintains a stoic expression on his pale face. Only two seconds later as he gets up does he hear the faint twang of one of his guitars. 

As if something or someone has just lightly brushed against the strings. 

Trent turns, brow furrowed deeper and sees nothing. He turns back. 

No sooner as he places one foot in front of the other when all of a sudden, the lowest key on his piano is played rumbling in his ears. It is enough for Trent to whirl around and witness the grand slam shut on the keyboard with a heavy, scathing thud. 

The lights go out. 

"Jesus!" Trent cries, takes a step back, though he is not sure if Jesus will help him. Sure enough, he feels the draft again, cold against his flesh like little icicles and hissing in his ears like a whispered breath. Trent freezes altogether, thoroughly frightened out of his mind, struck dumb with terror. He's afraid to open his mouth and call out to whatever or whoever has created the unnatural disturbance. He's afraid to move. He finds he cannot move even if he did want to, joints locked like that of a statue, still and cold and silent as the grave.

Someone sighs in his ear, or perhaps he imagines it. It is soft and dreamy, sending Trent's consciousness and apprehend into a haze. When he turns in what he assumes is the direction of the noise, someone reaches out to touch him. It is surprisingly warm, the palm of a hand cupping his cheek, sliding down his neck, fingers grazing through his hair. For a moment in dull recognizance, it feels real, corporeal in nature, and the haze deepens, leaving Trent's fear lost in translation, abandoned by the crossroads. Trent leans into it, much to his surprise, but the hand passes through and over him, as if teasing, dancing around him before fully dissipating, the feeling gone as if it has never been there in the first place.

_Hey. _  


Startled back to reality, Trent searches in vain for the voice in a much unaltered, empty room, leaving him only in the feeling of wondering if his imagination has run away with him. "Hello?" His voice quivers. 

All is silent. 

  


"I don't know. Perhaps you fell asleep?"

Trent shakes his head adamantly and balances the phone between his cheek and shoulder while twiddling anxiously with the cord. "No, fuck that. I was at the piano playing a song and-"

"And you fell asleep."

"_Why _do you keep saying that?" Trent scoffs, though it probably sounds more like an exhausted whine to Brian. He hasn't slept a wink last night, that much they both know for certain.

"Because we had just moved you in," Brian presses on the other end, "and we had worked on the house all day that day and you were pretty exhausted when I finally left. You still sound beat honestly."

Trent only gives a grunt in the affirmative. "Look, I know what I heard and I know what I felt," he mumbles. 

"What? You think a ghost felt you up last night?" Brian sounds more than incredulous. "You horny or something?"

Trent nearly throws his hands in the air in exasperation and almost drops the phone. "I don't know!" he huffs. "Maybe... but that's beside the point! I just..." He has to stop, pinch the bridge of his nose to steel his frustration. "Brian, why do you think a house this big and this old would go up for so cheap?"

There's silence on the other line until Brian coughs and manages, "Maybe there is a property issue that the management 'failed' to mention, but that doesn't always mean paranormal."

Except when it is paranormal," Trent sighs in the defense. 

More silence. Then, "You willing to prove it?"

  


When Trent answers the door later that night, he smiles. "Tori."

A full smile flashes back, and red curls bounce in. "Hi, kitten." A pair of lips press into his cheek, which Trent eagerly accepts, but Tori's smile when she steps back is more concerned than cheery. "Poor thing. Brian mentioned you hadn't slept much since your first night."

"Not really," Trent confesses, red in the face as she bustles past him to set own a covered tray. The smell is divine, and Trent remembers that these are the reasons why he is supposed to feel at home. 

"Read to call upon the spirits?" Brian's arm wrapped around Trent's chest pulls him back to the present. 

"Sure," Trent mumbles, trying to hide his smile. "Come on in, jackass."

Tori surveys the whole of the kitchen before indicating the tray of food. "Want me to stick this in the fridge, sweetpea?" Before Trent asks, she adds with a wink, "It's dinner for the week."

"You're a gift," Trent sighs. "Of course, that's fine." While he is thrilled that she is here, Trent is puzzled as to why. He had assumed Brian would bring a fake ghost box as a joke, stay the night, and that would be the end of that. With Tori here, Trent expects a lounge party rather than a seance. "So I expected Brian to ridicule me in all this, but I wasn't expecting you," he jokes.

Tori lays her coat over one of the chairs and looks thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose the cat has to come out of the bag sooner rather than later, huh," she says with a musical laugh. "To be honest, I'm surprised Brian didn't tell you."

"I thought it better that you did," Brian confesses sheepishly. 

Trent is more than a little confused. "Tell me what?" he asks, looking back and forth between the both of them. Tori gives a knowing glance.

"I'm a medium," she says simply. "Brian decided I would be the most help in discovering if there is a presence in this house."

"'A presence in this house'," Brian mocks playfully, to which Tori rolls her eyes while maintaining a thoughtful demeanor.

"Of course, he thinks this is all a load of shit," Trent interjects smoothly, "but I suppose you both really want to see some action."

They both nod, and Tori squeezes his hand. "I'm sorry I kept it from you but it's really not something you proudly proclaim to a world of skeptics."

Trent only shrugs. To him, all of this still seems a bit insane regardless. 

"Okay, Ed and Lorraine," Brian calls softly. "Ready or not?"

  


"Firstly, we need to all be holding hands."

Tori's voice resonates smoothly in Trent's ears, and the light in her eyes dances to the flame of the candle's wick. Despite the anxious tension of every muscle in his body, he softens at the warm glow.

"I want everyone to close their eyes next," Tori murmurs. "We will imagine ourselves surrounded by the white light of protection. It will guide us safely through."

Trent shifts restlessly in his spot on the hardwood floor, but the gentle yet firm squeeze to his hand brings him back to the present. He closes his eyes, and the warmth of the single flame fans out in a pulse over his face. He wonders if it is a natural occurrence. Wonders if flames are supposed to flex like that. A minute later, with all silent, all eyes shut, Tori speaks again.

"We come solemnly and respectfully with no ill will towards the beings who have since passed from this mortal coil."

It is poetic. It is dramatic. The light Tori requests beings as an ember in the back of Trent's mind. 

"We come as flesh and bone to speak with those that have none... We come and we wait for them to speak with us, to show us some sign that they are in fact here with us, transcended now, into the present, into an old reality... We come and we wait..."

The silence that follows is thick, so thick Trent can almost feel it, wonders if it has come alive somehow. It is an unnerving silence, engulfing the three with the darkness combated only by the tiny candle. Tori tries again. 

"If you would communicate with us, we would be so grateful. Even if you decline, give us some sign that you are here and we will respect your wishes. Use what energy you have, anything to reveal yourself to us. A knock, a-"

Suddenly Tori stops altogether and when Trent opens his eyes he sees her brows furrowed and mouth set in a thin line as if listening closely. She even leans forward, the upper half of her body like a plank, ready to fall. Trent worries that her curls will catch fire. Tori cocks her head to the side, continues to listen, the expression of absolute perplexity permanently etched on her lovely face. 

"I cannot hear you. You sound so far away."

Trent freezes in place. He hears nothing, and the mere statement brings chills running up and down his spine. Swallowing hard, he leans in in an attempt to whisper, "Tori, what... what can't you hear-"

_I said I only want to talk to him._  


Clear as day, the voice, a soft voice of a man, whispers in Trent's ear, the force of it so prominent; he can almost feel it draw breath right next to him. Trent gasps and breaks from their tiny circle to place both hands over his face. The gesture for a child hiding under their covers to wait for the bad monsters in their closet and under their bed to go away. He stays frozen in shock even as both Tori's and Brian's hands rest on his arm, on his thigh, as Tori's voice breaks through, as clear and real as the presence. Between his fingers, Trent eyes them both, seeing their concern and realizes. 

"You didn't hear that?" Back and forth between them. "You didn't hear any of that?"

"Hear what?" Tori asks softly; he can tell she is trying to remain calm. Brian looks concerned but aloof.

"Maybe we should stop for now," he suggests. "Trent, your anxiety is up and this is something that will probably worsen it if it goes too far."

"But I did hear something!" Trent presses, looking to Tori for his defense. The latter hesitates. 

"I'll only continue if-"

The light goes out.

"Shit." Trent searches for hands in the darkness, finds Tori's, smells the faint scent of wafting smoke. "Just a draft. Right, Brian? Just a draft?"

"I..." Brian refuses to finish that sentence, only stares at the unlit candle and shifts in his seat. Tori strokes the top of Trent's hand with her thumb but remains silent, listening for the voice. 

"Are you trying to scare us?" Trent calls out, voice more feeble than he anticipates. 

_I didn't mean to do that._  


Trent stiffens which prompts Tori to ask, "Did they speak to you again?" He only nods.

The flame returns, and the three startle to attention in the middle of their circle once more. Even Brian cannot attempt to make sense of the situation, and he reaches for Trent's hand again.

_I _did _mean to do that. Say thank you._  


Trent swallows the anxious lump in his throat and obeys, murmuring aloud, "Thank you..."

"Trent?"

Something presses into his temple, soft yet earnest and pressured, and Trent feels a shiver run down his spine as though the tip of a finger had made its way down his back. He straightens but stays silent, seeing no threat to the gesture; it almost felt comforting. 

_You're welcome. _  


The voice says no more after that, but Trent still feels that presence with him, behind him, an angel or devil on his shoulder. 

"...Trent?"

Snapping out of his trance, Trent glances from Tori to Brian and back to Tori again, the both of them staring. 

"Hmm?"

"Did they say anything else?" 

He pauses, waits for an affirmative from the other side, still reeling, but the voice says nothing. Slowly, Trent shakes his head, staring into the flickering flame. Then, "I think he wants to just talk to me."

Both of his friends glance at one another with uncertainty. 

"I still think you should go to sleep," Brian remarks, but he is shaken, eyeing the candle closely, waiting for sparks to fly or the flame to shoot up into the ceiling. "You're obviously stressed."

"Does he want us to leave?" Tori echoes.

_Yes._  


Trent nods, still trembling at the voice. Brian scoffs, but it does not keep him from looking worried. Tori decides on one final question.

"Are you okay? Do you want us to leave?"

The question catches Trent off guard but not as much as the answer he receives in his ear. 

_I won't hurt you._  


"I'll be all right."

_I just want to talk._  


"I think Brian is right, though," Trent tries, choosing his words carefully. "I should probably get some rest anyway." In response, Brian stares quizzically, eyes riddled with suspicion. 

"That's-"

"Brian, go turn on the lights for me," Tori says, voice smooth as syrup. She seems to be catching on. She blows out the candle. 

  


"Why do I feel as though he is talking for you?" Tori presses after Brian has gone to start the car. 

"Who?" Trent reaches into the fridge to pull out her dish. When he turns, Tori is looking at him with an I-know-you're-hiding-something expression on her face. Perks of a medium.

"You know who. I need to know you'll be safe, Trent. I don't feel any negative energy from him, but there is something else, and I just can't put my finger on it. But I don't know if it can be classified as good or bad intentions yet."

"So interesting to hear you talk this way," Trent muses.

"_Trent_."

"All right," Trent flings his hands up in exasperation. "He didn't speak after the candle... you know, and I guess that's when I realized how exhausted I was. I just know he wants you to leave. Maybe three's a crowd to him."

Tori narrows her eyes, and Trent wonders if she will continue to press him, but to his relief, she does not while maintaining an expression of absolute perplexity. As she gathers her things and head for the door, Trent stands still, ruminating whether or not he _should _tell her. Before he can even make a decision, his tongue choose for him and the words run out of his mouth before he can stop them. 

"I think I just got kissed by a ghost."

Tori halts at the door, hand hovering over the knob, and turns to face him, mouth slightly open, bewildered. Neither speak for what feels like too long until a slow, knowing smile spreads on her face. 

"I see."

"What do you mean?" Trent asks earnestly.

"I mean," Tori continues, "you may have to get used to having this one around."

  


Once they both leave, Trent realizes how much spookier the house is, still and quiet, only the occasional creaks for company. Despite the reassurance he had received prior, whispered softly in his ear, Trent still dreads turning off every light in his house. As he makes his way to the living room, he pauses and waits fervently.

"Hello?"

Nothing responds, no knock or touch or corporeal voice next to him, and like Trent, the house seems to wait, holding its breath. Finally, and with a short sigh, Trent turns out the lights and makes his way upstairs. 

His bed is warm and inviting, and relieved, Trent falls face first, determined to sleep through the rest of the night. In the forefront of his mind, he wonders if any of it had even happened. The mind is a powerful thing. Trent hugs his pillow, closes his eyes, and breathes deep and even, the only sound in the room. 

_That's funny._  


Trent's breath catches when he hears it.

_You actually thought I had just disappeared?_  


When he cracks open his eyes, it takes him one second to realize there is someone else in his bed. Someone else. Laying on their side, propped on one elbow. Staring at him. An amused expression on their face. Trent blinks and then shoots up, startling himself out of bed and landing on the floor with a dull thud.

_Holy moly, that reaction was a bit much, huh?_  


Pain slices through Trent's arm and shoulder and only slowly recedes away after a few choice words muttered in a hiss under his breath. When his vision finally clears, he sees him, this time sitting upright on the side of the bed and sliding forward with a concerned, gentle smile on his face. Not exactly the countenance one would expect from someone who would nearly knock a ladder down on him. Trent blinks again, pondering over whether he is dreaming. 

The man's smile is dazzling, and the rest of his visage is just as comely with warm, brown eyes swathed in red eyeshadow, a smaller nose pleasantly upturned, and a pair of soft lips all canopied by light blonde waves that rest just an inch or two above his shoulders. The rest of him is decked out in a long-sleeved mesh shirt, covering various tattoos over his chest and arms, and deplorably tight leather pants. When he reaches a small hand up to adjust his hair, Trent notices black painted fingernails. He just may be the prettiest man Trent has ever seen, an alternative boy's wet dream. But he isn't just a man, he remembers. This is the ghost. His ghost. 

"Y-you... you're... you're..." Trent hates himself for forgetting simple English at a moment like this. 

The man blinks, looks amused. _Yes,_ he says. _Me. Jeez, you look paler than me._ Then he laughs, a short, musical laugh, and it almost eases Trent's nerves. Almost. The ghost sobers. _That was a joke. You can still joke in the afterlife. _

"So you really are..." Trent stops. He cannot brings himself to say the words.

_Dead? _The ghost nods as if contemplating the word. _Yeah, I suppose I am. Hope that isn't gonna be a problem, because as you can see, I can't really go anywhere. _  


Wordlessly, Trent starts to shake his head, but suddenly the series of strange occurrences come flooding back to his brain. "Wait, wait, wait," he stammers, attempting to get up. "Somehow you being dead is something I can get behind, but large objects falling on top of me? Why the sudden change in behavior? Seemed pretty hostile at first."

That _was an accident, I swear, _the man says. _Just watching._

"And the piano?" Trent asks distrustfully.

_Again, just watching, _he raises his hands defensively. _But I guess I wanted to try playing and it backfired on me._

Trent snorts. "Backfired as in you just had to shut off all the lights on me?"

The ghost shrugs. _Minor paranormal malfunction I suppose._

Trent almost laughs at that. He doesn't expect a humorous spirit.

After a second's silence, the man says coyly, _You have cool guitars. _Trent stares thoughtfully. _It's nice to have another musician in the house for once._

"You're a musician, too?"

_Was._  


Again Trent bites his tongue, somewhat ashamed of himself. Perhaps this is too sensitive a subject for that matter, but the ghost pipes up shortly after.

_Would be still, if I didn't have my little accident. _Here, he turns to the side and brushes his hair out of the way to reveal a small hole, still fresh, an obvious gunshot wound. _Fun fact: it will never heal._  


"Never?" Trent frowns, feeling a twinge of sadness.

_Never-dot-com, _echoes the spirit, sure to enunciate every word perfectly. The he notices Trent's bewildered face. _You look like you have another question._  


"I..." Trent stops. At this point, he does not want to be rude but the nagging in his brain finally forces him to ask, "So you can't leave or won't leave?"

There's that laugh of again. It is not malicious in the slightest, which puts Trent's mind more at ease. _Sounds likes you really want me gone. Did I scare you that much?_

Trent presses his lips together and wishes he could hide his reddening face. "So why are you still here?"

_Because I died here, keep up. _The ghost's voice stays light, but Trent catches the edge of irritation at the many sensitive questions. He gives him a look though, because that is not what he wants. His unexpected visitor starts to catch on. _Ah, I see. I see where you are getting at. _Trent takes a small step back as he slowly steps forward from the bed. Despite how small he is in frame, the spirit just barely surpasses Trent by a few inches, and when he gets closer, somehow those two inches seem substantial to him. He feels his back hit the wall, and as the ghost closes in, he wonders if he will phase right through him. Instead a familiar warmth encloses around him. It grows like embers when the ghost raises his hand and wafts in gentle waves over his face and body as he reaches up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Trent's ear.   


Trent blinks once. The gesture is so tender and intimate. He can actually feel his fingers brush over his ear, down his cheek when he lowers his hand. It leaves a tingling over his flesh like an electric shock, and Trent shudders, feeling incredibly shy all of a sudden. When he gazes at the entity before him, he looks more than a little coy as well, a soft smile on his lovely face. 

_I would have left years ago, _he begins, voice barely above a whisper. _Then you came along, Trent. Something living and breathing and warm. _He slides one finger down his nose, an innocent gesture. _Suddenly I didn't feel so cold anymore. _The finger slides across his lower lip, leaving a trail of sparks, more daring. This is not a familiar, corporeal touch, but somehow, Trent can feel everything he does. And he lets him.   


_Do I still scare you?_  


The question is genuine. Trent shakes his head, sucks in a breath as that hand makes its way down his neck. He gulps, but he is not frightened. The sparks follow, straight to his beating heart. 

_Then why is your heart pounding?_  


Trent huffs. He knows, so he will not give him the satisfaction of an answer. He knows why.

_Jeez Louise, feels like it could explode, _the ghost exclaims, entirely interested now. when he glances back at Trent's face, his laughter is much softer as he realizes. _I should probably let you rest. I tend to forget these things. _He drops his hands and starts to back away.  


"Wait!" Trent calls, snapping out of his stupor. "I don't even know your name."

A smile. _Call me Five. _Then he is gone.

  


Trent wakes from a sound sleep and breaks into a smile. Not a disturbance since last night. Nothing but pleasant dreams, dreams of a young man with a dazzling smile serenading him with a guitar. It had been a dream he didn't want to wake up from, but when he comes to, it is his reality. He stretches and hoists himself out of bed, venturing into the bathroom next door. As he brushes his teeth, he happens to glance outside and notices the fresh blanket of fallen snow. It will be a good day, he decides. Perhaps he will write, finish a song. Perhaps someone will join. 

Remembering the events from last night, Trent can still sense the tingling in places where he's been touched. He blushes and promptly smirks to himself. After he cleans up, he raises his head, just catching the figure of a man behind him in the mirror. 

"Jesus!" Trent gasps, backing up into the door.

_Not quite, _Five jokes, _but I've been told I'm an angel._  


He flashes him an innocent smile.

Trent points his toothbrush at him like a weapon. "Okay, you can't keep doing that. We gotta set some ground rules." Five gives him a look like 'seriously?', but Trent ignores it. "Rule number one: don't just pop up out of nowhere. I get that this is your home, but you got a tenant now and I'm the one with the mortgage so please, don't give me any pre-mature heart attacks. At least for now. This is gonna take some getting used to.

Five chuckles. _Got it. _

"Rule number two-"

_There's more?_  


"Shut up. Yes, there is. Don't fuck with my appliances or electricity."

_Why would I do that?_  


Trent shrugs. "I don't know. Ghosts can get angry at humans and tend to do strange things to scare them off."

Five crosses his arms, looks thoughtful. _With you? Doubtful. You're far too amusing. _

"Yeah, well, I'm a Taurus," Trent laughs, walking out of the bathroom. At this point, he just expects Five to follow him. "We are moody and stubborn as hell. Rule number three-"

Five sighs in Trent's ear. 

"Rule number three: not everyone knows about this, so don't go scaring any guests I may bring home. Tori may be used to you because she's a medium or whatever, but Brian is as skeptic as they come. Don't freak him out or anyone else."

_What about lady guests? _Five inquires curiously. Somehow Trent knows that he is fishing for something, something that makes his ears go hot and his cheeks burn.   


"I- uh..." Once again, English escapes him. "I'm sort of... in between girlfriends at the moment."

_Mm._  


"What's so 'mm'?"

_Oh nothing._  


Trent shoots him a look and huffs once before descending the stairs. "Hmph." Stubborn is the word, Trent painfully realizes just when he misses one step. For a brief moment of panic, he sees his life flash before his eyes and imminent death or worse until... nothing. 

Hands grab him under the arms and wrap firmly around his chest, pulling him securely back. When Trent has the courage to open his eyes and turn his head, he stares into two, warm, panicked, brown eyes.

"Thanks," he murmurs.

Five looks relieved. _This house isn't big enough for two ghosts. _He chuckles and sets him down. _Any other rules?_

Breathlessly, Trent adjusts his shirt and shakily makes his way down the rest of stairs. "No," he finally manages. He can still feel the tingling sparks at him chest on his way to the kitchen, like an imprint of hands, and feels more than a little flushed.

  


Something pulls at the covers gently, and Trent stirs. He hardly opens his eyes, thinking he had only moved in the night, but they shift again, raised slightly as if someone else is there with him.

When he finally opens them, everything is a blur, a blissful haze much like the static crackling from the radio, weaving between his fingers but much softer. It slides in and out as though he is gliding, floating through warm water. He breathes slowly, evenly, raises his arms high above his head, grasps the headboard, stretches with a soft whimper. Someone is in the bed with him, but not beside him or standing over him. 

A warm, familiar palm, smooths up his stomach under his t-shirt and caresses his chest. It is tender yet searingly sensual, resting over his heart and feeling it beat. Trent places his hand over it, glances down, and sees the shape of what looks like a body in between his legs. Thinking himself still in a dream, Trent calmly raises the blanket and finds no one there. As he lets it fall back however, the shape remains, and Trent stares, stupefied. The hand at his chest gives a light squeeze, and then another slowly pushes up his shirt slightly. What feels like a warm mouth gently presses against his tummy, and Trent's breath hitches at the unexpected yet feverishly pleasant sensation. He proceeds to rip off the covers and gapes at the pretty man lying on his stomach between his thighs, lips mouthing at his tummy and hips. 

Five dreamily blinks up at him and smirks. Nothing malicious about it, but Trent's blood runs hot at the sight of him, lips wet, eyes hazy, hair slightly mussed from the covers. _Hey, _he breathes, moving up and sliding his hand further up Trent's shirt, taking it with him. Trent shivers at the touch and surrenders, reclining back against the pillows, mouth open and waiting for Five's. Eagerly, the spirit slots his lips with Trent's, and they lay like that for what feels like hours of bliss. Five's free hand runs through Trent's hair tenderly, smooths down to caress his cheek in a loving gesture. 

When they part, Five gazes down at him adoringly, and Trent swears that no one has ever looked at him that way before. The sparks that he felt before are fireworks in the back of his eyes, reflected to Five pleadingly. Sparks from the latter's lips when he bends down to mouth at his throat. Leaving an aching trail down his tummy, lower and lower. Trent's breaths quicken, and he squirms when he feels thumbs hook into his sweatpants. 

Five fingers the waistline for a minute and begins pulling it down just so that the soft patch of dark hair is visible. Trent blushes deep red as he kisses over it, reaches down, and threads his fingers through blonde tendrils as Five nuzzles his groin. The look he gives him is enough to make Trent lose himself, so he tugs at his hair, hopefully making it clear what he wants from Five.

Five laughs softly and leaves one last electric kiss on Trent's stomach before removing the offending piece of clothing. Trent raises his hips to help and stares longingly at Five, who glances back assuredly and reaches down to stroke his inner thigh. 

_You're soft here, _he murmurs and kisses the area. Trent bites his lower lip. Five kisses him through his underwear, and his next response is a whimper. As his cock springs free, he gasps, utters a low curse when Five breathes a hot breath over it, sucks in a sharp breath himself, nearly choking when he wraps his mouth around him.   


"Five," Trent moans raggedly, pleading with him, and the ghost hums contently. His hands hold his hips, tongue working him to an incoherent mess. 

_Say my name just like that, baby, _Five whispers breathlessly, rocking back on his knees and unzipping his fly.  


Trent sits up immediately, determined to know what a ghost tastes like. He kisses him, admires the tattoos adorning his chest and arms underneath his mesh shirt, gets down low on his knees, cups him with his palm. He hears Five sigh when he takes him into his mouth, takes him in easily, eagerly. He feels thin fingers and painted nails run through his hair. When he steals a coy glance his way, Five urges him to kiss him again. Kiss him while he falls back against the mattress of the bed, the ghost's tongue curling inside his mouth.

Trent's eyes adore Five hovering over him. His mouth parts when he slides inside, breath caught in his throat, and his eyes continue to watch him, brow furrowed in desperation. Trent's eyes adore the beautiful expression he makes. They wrap their arms around each other, Trent's lips locked on Five's neck as Five begins to move. 

  


Five falls asleep with his arms still enclosed around Trent's body, face nestled in the crook of his shoulder. For the rest of the night, Trent watches him sleep, afraid he will disappear. 


End file.
